


History Repeating

by cinemarss



Category: Therapy with Dr. Albert Krueger (Video Game), 文森: G4人偶事件 | Vincent: Phantom of the G4 (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Gun Violence, Not Canon Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Self-Indulgent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:53:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27664999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinemarss/pseuds/cinemarss
Summary: “Eugh.Whatever,” Zalmona sneers, and she’s standing up straight again before her boot grinds into the cyborg’s skull, digging down as if she were putting out a cigarette on the sidewalk. The metal creaks under pressure, and all too fast itshatters—blood and screws scattering against the tiled floor in a rush as the cyborg’s structure collapses in on itself. “Who the hell are you, anyways? Not everyday I meet someone who can make it all the way down here without getting their organs eaten likecrazy.”“...I—” He begins, yet his mouth snaps shut a second later as his hand lingers in the air. He almost freezes entirely, gaze unfocused and downwards as his eyebrows furrow. The question leaves him sick, yet the woman’s arched brows and smirk leave him choking out an answer forcibly. “—I don’t know.”...A story in which Draco wakes up with amnesia instead. Things don't go particularly well for anyone.(On hiatus until further notice.)
Relationships: Albert Krueger & Taylor Lee, Draco Edgeworth & MC (VTSOM), Vincent Edgeworth/Victor Blake
Comments: 12
Kudos: 44





	1. Gemini - Act I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So it begins.

_Gemini  
Stars are out tonight  
They’re shining bright  
Our sign is up in the sky  
The stars don’t lie  
I think I need  
A private eye_

* * *

December 15th, 2084. 10:37 PM.

G4 District, Docks.

...

The G4 district could not claim itself to be the most beautiful of the districts, nor did it ever seem to _want_ to take such a statement for itself. The neverending line of skyscrapers and factories dotted the mainland’s mass—industrialization overpowering most of the geography available. It was G4’s pride, to be the most mechanically advanced in engineering and robotics work when compared to the accomplishments of the other bordering sectors.

That is not to say that most of the wildlife had been cleared—far from it, actually. Suburban areas rested well into the northern regions. None occupied those areas, however. The cities had long stopped extending in that direction, once the grounds around rivers were found unfit to support such large-scaled infrastructure—infrastructure once vital to the future of G4.

Yet, even so—with it’s air often polluted with smog and decay, there was a certain beauty held within the district that couldn’t be found elsewhere. The docks, in particular, had always been Vanora’s favorite.

She hadn’t found it in herself to ever figure out why—it might have been because of her own nostalgia, but even then, sights unfamiliar to her leveled a serenity unmatched. She had often gone to the bays along residential dock borders with her parents in the summer, when she was much younger and still blind to the district's faults. It was relatively peaceful there, and she stayed in rented houses with other families and played with children none the wiser.

Vanora hadn’t gone to the bay in years, unfortunately—school and work proved all the more time consuming as she aged. The rent grew to higher costs, as well, and most of her hopes in revisiting her childhood were snuffed away by the time she entered college.

The City Center grew, however—and many of the docks had grown accustomed to both shipments, as well as tourism and entertainment. The holiday seasons down by the cruises were her favorite, with the seafood restaurants and various marketplaces bustling wildly in a festivity unparalleled. Light shows paraded around often, and though most people had to clear out before it got too late, the winter days provided enough shade to accommodate for such.

Which is why it was so unsettling, to see such an area empty and desolate. The silence nagged at Vanora’s being whole, and when combined with the cold front’s persistent, gusting winds—it was almost enough to distract herself from the pain which had steadily blossomed through her nerves.

_Almost._

Vanora stifled another hiss from slipping past her teeth, molars grinding uncomfortably across each other as she pressed her back firmly to the creased, metal sheets of the storage units. Blood had dried warm against her lips, nose slanted arduously against all will, till cartilage shattered and split into flesh masterfully. Her normally pale skin was splotched with yellow and black, swollen to the wounds endured through all else—and by God, a punch has never hurt so bad in her life.

It’s not the worst of it all, unfortunately. Glass shards are still mixed crudely in the strands of her hair, and she doesn’t even want to take another glance at her right arm. All she could see was a mix of crimson, and paired with how every shift of the limb left her body trembling down in _agony—_ she knew well enough that it would not be usable for the foreseeable future.

Her lungs weighed of leather, discomfort accompanying each desperate intake of oxygen—and she’s unable to decipher if it’s her diaphragm sputtering to function or the blemishes that stained her chest. If it were not for the adrenaline pumping through her veins, she’d have half a _goddamn_ mind to let herself collapse right then and there.

The sounds of crunching steps are still fresh in her mind, and though the presence of another is _long_ gone—she looks down, a quick glance at the blood seeping beneath ice and snow, and her stomach is sent _plummeting_ back to hours of memories. She lowers her grip from her own limp elbow, pressing her good arm back against the wall for any support she can salvage in the moment. Her line of sight blurs over in a wave of dizziness, and when knees begin to buckle dangerously, a cry finally rips out from hoarse vocal cords.

Vanora slowly, but surely, feels her jacket wet uncomfortably against the wall behind her—slithering down carefully until she’s on the ground, knees pulled close to her quaking frame. Her shoulders spasm in rhythm with hitched sobs, and soon, pitiful _snickers_ are mixed in with the cacophony of broken wails—and she can’t find herself to stop laughing anymore, because she can’t remember the last time everything _hurt._

Even medical school was nothing more than an insignificant shield to the hysterical tug inside her chest—the same tug she had buried down for years, after her parents left the world to keep turning on its axis.

_Vanora had grounded herself from the rotation, had done all in her power to resist the downwards tumble that the ground vigorously clawed for—but she was failing, now. Here she sat, alone, finally thrown back down to such an emotional dissonance—she can’t even unravel why warm tears flood her features. Maybe it was the avulsions in her arm, the muscles torn from the inside, when bullets had aimed to kill just mere hours ago._

She should _really_ take the time to treat those gunshot wounds, when she finally has the sense to let it cross her mind.

After another long, strenuous moment passes, Vanora finally lifts her spinning head from the surface of her knees—sniffling out meekly before twisting against the corner of a crate, arm now openly visible. When she takes a proper look over, stressed hisses are seething through the gaps in her teeth. She didn’t have _any_ of the necessary medical tools to deal with this in an efficient manner, and she almost gags when her sleeve is subsequently peeled away from a thick layer of crimson and skin.

 _“Fucking hell,”_ Vanora curses, rushing to fumble a hand in her jacket pocket—right arm worryingly numb to the bitter gales of the seafront’s solitude. She feels a slick screen brush against her thumb whilst scavenging for the pocket knife, and the reminder of a phone in her possession nearly lurches her forward in whiplash. Even as she leaves it be, forcing frostbit digits to pry the blade open and cut at the sleeves adorning slender arms—her thoughts are racing for thousands of miles, and sweat is pooling at her forehead as options weigh themselves, deriding to the point of nausea. “G—God _dammit—!”_

Fabric is sliced in sheer seconds, and Vanora is precise as the cloth is wrapped tenderly about her forearm—before she _tugs,_ and the pressure is so tight she’s unsure if blood can even flow properly to the wrist. It doesn’t matter, at this rate—it’s what's needed.

Her boots scrape against crooked, powdered asphalt as she rises, using the crate for stabilization before her eyes dart frantically for the nearest door. She needs insulation and shelter, before the next flurry of gales do her in for good.

When she eventually settles on a double-wide door, with nothing more than a simple iron lock in place, her sauntering is anything but composed—and if it were not for the narrow walls towering around her, she would’ve fallen to her knees and broken her nose all over again. The rust on the lock is prominent, and after huffing exasperatedly—she bared the handle of the pocket knife and _slammed_ all her strength into the paltry security measure.

It’s on the third or fourth clang that the caterwaul is finally put to rest, and the lock shatters to the ground soundly. The doors creak loudly as they’re shoved open, and when Vanora promptly shutters them behind her—she’s at peace, alone in the barren ports she once wandered with a smile.

Vanora sits down gently on the metal containers, already able to identify the current unit as being an old Myers shipment locale—mechanical prosthetics visible from untouched packages a few feet away. It’s _ironic,_ really, as she finally discards the contents of her pockets, and a business card marking the M-shaped logo stares back at her. She’d laugh, if her lungs allowed her to.

She turns her attention away from it quickly enough, already finding her aggravation flourish at the sight of such a simple slip of identification. Her eyes eventually rest on her phone, nearly untarnished aside from the few splatters of red, long dried and crusted on the thin screening. The irritation bubbled over, and soon—was replaced with a sinking, solemn sense of unease.

Vanora didn’t know if she could even call for authorities, anymore.

It was all so obviously out of the G4 Investigation Bureau’s control—the case, in reaching its verdict, only resulted in the continuation of citizens vanishing without a trace. Even with the corporation’s bankruptcy, nothing was ever done, and G4 was left in shambles of what once was it’s golden era.

Protection would be a futile offer from the police, and she knew more bodies would hit against the floor if the lawholders stood between her and the barrel of the gun—and she’d breathe her last breath in the confines of the city’s safest walls. Going to a hospital would only allow her to be traced through medical files, so she was _well_ on her own for first aid.

She pressed her thumb over the button lining the bottom of her phone, and a gentle light illuminated against the warehouse’s penumbra. Vanora’s breath caught in the back of her throat as the lockscreen came into view.

_She could try calling him._

The boy’s gentle features were frozen, a snapshot she had snuck behind his back during an outing to the greenhouses in one of the city’s squares last winter. The location was renowned for its beauty, with several exotic flowers—even hailing from G5—blossoming freely in well-preserved conditions. It was funded for consistently, being one of the few places with nature preservation in G4, and the results of the work put in was astounding.

The boy had taken her there to see the flora up close—he had never seen the establishment in his entire life, much to Vanora’s surprise. He seemed to want to only go for her sake, which—in turn—was her need just for the boy to experience _something_ for himself outside of work. Despite being one of the most formal and intelligent people she knew, the boy was socially inept at times and appeared to barely even recognize the streets they met on.

Vanora thought it was charming, in its own way.

The photo itself was of the boy standing at one of the shelves, his back slightly turned to gaze down fondly at a small terrarium—pre-planted, filled to the brim with small cactuses flowering with vibrancy. He was only wearing a simple dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, with pale jeans and boots dressing the waist down. The boots were anything but _casual,_ but it was the least formal footwear he’d equipped on his person yet.

Vanora was enticed when she first saw him, in that moment—unused to ever seeing his eyes _glisten_ with such joy. He kept to himself so often that he was unsure and perplexed whenever she pushed for details to himself and his interests, and it was a personal mission to break that lack of identity entirely. When she spotted him, in the golden rays of the morning-noon—black hair turning to vivid hues in all essences, with eyes slightly wide in wondering awe, she snapped the photo without a second thought. He had startled but a second later, holding the pottery of cacti close to his chest in a flustered fit, and Vanora laughed so hard that the children joined with their parents nearby were giggling along, too.

When Vanora blinks again, water splashes atop the image, and her vision blurs over for the second time that night. With quivering lips, she lets another sob slide past her throat.

Tomorrow would be the very same day they had visited that greenhouse, but a year later, and Vanora Ellis—in all her wit and adaptability—didn’t know if she would _ever_ be able to see that boy again.

When a jittering thumb hovers over the contact number, with a conversation held so casually just that morning—Vanora _knows,_ now, that she can never see Draco Edgeworth again. Her mind is reeling, recalling how they had plans again the next morning—that they were going to try the trams in downtown, and visit the small cafe near the lakes. Draco had found that they sold chocolate-coated croissants with melted marshmallow this time of year, and knowing Vanora’s own sweet-tooth, _insisted_ they go.

Another blubbering cough rises, and soon the only sound entering her auditory nerves is the sputtering, anguished laments—wrenching from a place, deep in the back of her mind. The same place she reserved, had bottled for so long.

 _“I’m so sorry,”_ Vanora whispers, before she turns from the phone’s screen and never looks back to those bright, blue eyes again. For doing so meant they were both dead.

...

_The next morning, phone shards are still stuck in the crevices of her boots. Her arm is in a sling, broken beyond repair and shredded in thorns._

_Vanora Ellis vanishes from the world, and with it, she never existed to begin with._

...

* * *

_Gemineye  
Someone wants me dead  
That’s what you said  
So I called on you  
What can I do  
Learn his name  
Pick apart the clues_

* * *

December 17th, 2084. 9:48 AM.

G4 District, City Center.

...

Taylor Lee’s life was mediocre, at best.

As many had described for them—once Taylor had finally offered the tidbits of their experiences, out of the nineteen years of life—the lack of prominent events to recall fondly was _starking,_ and in turn, boring. To most, that is.

Taylor’s life was tame, that much they could not deny. They had grown up in the quieter outskirts of the G2 District—one of the more unknown cities, compared to G2’s bustling capital of grandiose dreams and decaying poverty. Their parents had immigrated from G5 before they were born, in order to take advantage of the many opportunities available in the sectors. Despite all that G2 had to offer, however, they remained in the same hometown their whole life before college came into the foreseeable future.

Their early childhood was akin to humble origins, if taken in the right context. They’d walk home every day from school with the same bunch of close-knit friends, and count their dollars and buy ice cream to power through homework. When the sun would set, they’d all scatter home—and if Taylor was still stuck on the same worksheets, their dad would come into the room smelling of coffee and lean over their shoulder, pushing them to the right direction until they understood the solutions on their own.

Taylor was six years old when a brother came into their life, and then seven when the sister soon followed after. The two of them would bicker often, aggressive and powerful in nature—a large surprise when compared to Taylor’s reserved and obedient habits in the years beforehand. When Taylor’s mother was still working late with her psychologist positions, Taylor was more often than not the doting sibling—and their brother and sister would come crying over a simple fight, begging the eldest to make amends in their favor. Taylor disputed with a compromise almost every time.

The simple life had taken a significant turn months ago, however—with the encounter of a man so bizarre, that Taylor couldn’t go a day without having the absurdity of it all hit them again and again.

Nobody would blame them if they knew, really. To be in the midst of your college education, making way towards a steady career in the forensics department—before a man donned in gloves, a tie, and a cunning smile appears in your dreams, offering the most _flimsy_ definition of therapy Taylor had ever regarded.

Said man was Albert Krueger, both the most interesting—yet _pitiful_ individual Taylor had the pleasure of knowing. Only sporting a PhD in marine biology, he had offered test after test to Taylor—who, in utter _defiance_ of the whole ordeal, failed deliberately and persistently. They had knocked cups over during the game with the eyeball, had blatantly pretended to fail the math education of a fifth grader, and flipped papers so often that Albert was becoming undone in due time. The final straw was when, on the Rorschach test, Taylor had revealed a hand-drawn portrait of an old college acquaintance—and Taylor feared, for just a _moment,_ that it was the wrong move as Albert physically bursted.

Taylor was fine, however. They had left the session on questionable circumstances, and when their computer began to pile up in new text files from the man—they had to manually reach out and give their phone number. The idea hadn’t even crossed Albert’s mind, apparently, and Taylor had to question if he really was the best in his class at R.M.U.

Taylor would be lying if they said they regretted meeting the man, really.

The dream visits, albeit bizarre and against all logic they grew to understand in the course of their life, were enjoyable. Albert improved over time, as well—providing less of the cosmic horrors and threatening background furniture once Taylor expressed distaste. The nights without even a short greeting from the man grew scarce, and when they did occur, lonely.

Never once, however, did Taylor Lee think that Albert Krueger—in all his morally questionable glory—would be the factor in which everything would change.

_For better or worse, they couldn’t say, when they stared down at the copy machine in one of G4’s precincts—unaware of everything to come, just from one, simple photo._

...

The office in which Taylor Lee had met Krueger grew on their liking, eventually. The psychedelic shades of blue and pink overlapped in the scenery seamlessly, and while initially straining to the eyes—it wavered, bubbling in mesmerizing swirls akin to the mellow lapping of a brook’s shore. It really was a waking dream, once they were aware of the man’s abilities; the room, while nothing more than a connection between souls, solidified in authenticity to their liking.

Albert had made improvements to the room, over time, after several suggestions. A coffee table, sleek in its design, now rested before two sofa chairs for the patients—with a small, potted succulent in the center. The stand had gone unused more often than not, however, considering that Taylor still vehemently declined any food the therapist offered. Especially the cuisine involving any source of meat.

A few more dim lamps were around the vicinity, lessening the severity of the previous sense of interrogation before the arrangements. The wall to the right of Krueger’s desk had been renovated entirely to large, floor-scaled windows, outlooking over the presumed capital of G2. Curtains to the side of the glass were only used, occasionally, when dreameaters grew curious in their muddled purpose of humanity left behind. The office held more life to it, really, even if Taylor knew the purpose was all but for the preservation of such a concept.

“Taylor, you’re beginning your next term soon, yes?” Albert had inquired, one night, sipping a cup of Earl Grey quietly from the contentment of his own desk. His eyebrows were raised in curiosity, and it was _obvious_ to tell he had an idea brewing in the back of his mind. “How are the forensics classes going, if I may?”

“...Hm, fine, I guess,” Taylor hummed in response, tapping their nails idly on the glass surface of the coffee table from their position. They were splayed over the sofa chair, legs extended over the armrest in the lack of room for such a posture. “I need to begin my work hours soon, though. I’ve been struggling to find a decent precinct.”

Albert nodded curtly. “Is that so? You’re attending... Westridge University, was it?”

Taylor paused momentarily, arm outstretching to grab hold of a porcelain handle. Raising their own matching teacup to parted lips, they held back the urge to snicker as the sensation of Gatorade hit against their tongue. It was a source of amusement for them, really.

On the third meeting with the man behind Krueger Corporations, he had offered the college student a drink during one of the breaks. Albert seemed adamant on letting Taylor choose whatever they pleased, yet had scrutinized without remorse when their choice happened to be Gatorade, of all things. Perhaps Albert expected better from Taylor Lee, and in the disappointment of learning Taylor’s own taste wasn’t refined as his own—had forced the drink into a teacup since, in an illusion to himself. Taylor asked for Gatorade every meeting since then, much to the therapist’s dismay.

Taylor sighed contentedly, finally correcting the man across the room. “Close. Eastridge University, by the capital.”

“Right, right,” Albert mused in response, folding his gloved hands tenderly on the desk he was settled upon. “Have you spoken to the board about your hours, yet?”

“Nah, not really. Been busy helping my friend with moving to a new apartment, so I haven’t found the time,” Taylor admits, shifting up on the sofa after a moment to cross one leg over the other—already preparing themself to crack Albert’s motivations wide open. “...Why? Doubt you can instantly land me a job. No offense.”

“None taken, my dear Taylor,” Albert dismisses, an eased smile coming over his features as he waved a hand at the statement. His voice was low and alluring, the same tone he used in the first session. “I’m just interested in you, if I must be honest. I do adore all my patients equally, but I’ve grown to hold a particular... enjoyment, in our company.”

“...That’s cool. You don’t have to look out for me, though. I don’t want you to spend resources on me or anything.”

“This is of my own investment, Taylor. Think of it more as—advice, between colleagues, rather than a therapist and his patient.”

“...Hm. I guess I can do that,” Taylor mutters after a moment, tilting their head to the side at the proposition with crossed arms. Albert was still using the term patient, rather than client—another blatant sign of his lack of qualifications. They didn’t know if they even wanted to correct him on it. “You got an idea or something?”

Albert nods, pushing the swivel chair back briefly to coax at one of the drawers behind the desk—pulling out a file, encased in a classic yellow envelope. Albert approached with it in hand, and Taylor took it without a word. They slipped a few of the papers out carefully, eyeing over the contents before blinking up—finding that Albert was back at the counter, as if he never moved to begin with.

Taylor would need to ask how he did that, eventually—they’d always wondered if they could do the same, during the meetings, if they tried. They offer a small nod, allowing Albert to illustrate his proposal.

“R.M.U. is rather large in their connections, Taylor. The main campus has several programs with universities from other districts, in order to allow for easier immigration rates and employment,” Krueger leaned back, resting his legs atop the desk casually as he ran deep in thought. “Eastridge University is a part of that program. If you talk to the board, I’m certain you can land a precinct near R.M.U. from the course.”

Taylor blanked at the man, sighing after a long moment of silence. They rested their cheek against the palm of their hand, elbow firm on the armrest as Albert—from across the room—played the fool.

“What are you getting from this, Albert?”

The therapist’s eyebrows settle higher. “Whatever do you mean, Taylor?”

“...It’s rad of you to tell me this kinda stuff,” Taylor began, gaze narrowing in on the graduate calmly. It was a game of hitting the right nerves, and the man walking on dreams would crumble _efficiently_ in their hands. They shut their eyelids shortly after. “I appreciate it, really. But don’t you think it's a bit obvious that you’re suggesting a job near your old college?”

“It’s just the one I’m familiar with, my dear,” Albert refuted, his smile unmoving. “The police are often taking interns, as well. I figured it’d be something you’d like to know, before making a decision.”

Taylor’s eyes snapped open, piercing into red-wine orbs of a similar hue, yet of a youth uncompared.

“I’m not _stupid,_ Krueger. It’s not like you to suggest something like transferring districts just for an internship,” Taylor dictated, posture upright in a challenging sense of authority. “You’re just as fond as G2 as I am, aren’t you?”

Albert’s gaze lowered in a pondering motion, his own fangs peering slightly from an open, breathless laugh—it would’ve been endearing, if Taylor didn’t know the man was daft and aloof all at once.

“...Do you enjoy jellyfish, Taylor?” Albert inquired, a swift change in subject upon taking another sip from his own cup.

“Albert.”

“I believe I am quite fond of jellyfish, myself,” Albert asserted, barely offering a second glance before the wall behind him distorted—and Taylor watched, in mild interest, as painted jellyfish bobbed along the blue surface. Illusions in all, Taylor at least appreciated they were cute—adorable, compared to the other creatures they’ve seen mingling around darkened corners and hidden crevices. “They’re such interesting organisms, you see. They do not have brains as we do—they are composed of a system of nerves for sensory and motor activity.”

Taylor rested in discontented silence, eyes turning up to the sudden physical motions surrounding the two of them during Albert’s spiel. The animated sea jellies pushed against the flat surface, before, with a small _pop—_ they squeezed out into the room. Taylor flinched lightly as one brushed against their cheek, yet relaxed as it seemed to rub into their neck in a cuddling motion. No doubt Albert’s own affection—and the urge to smile was forced down reluctantly as the sea creature fluttered away in a flurry of warbling purrs. If only this was how they were, in the waking world.

“Jellyfish do not find the need to think, nor even contain natural instinct as you’d expect. They are free, floating idly in the ocean without a purpose,” Albert continues, and Taylor swears a Lion’s Mane—in it’s enormous, orange conformity—floats past the windows outside. They don’t even realize they’re pinching their own nose in exasperation, before a swarm of the illusions quiver atop their head, concerned. “They’re so _pleasant_ to be around. Don’t you agree, Taylor? They never pry, never suspect, never analyze the _unnecessary...”_

A minute of quiet goes by.

Taylor waves a hand to nudge the marine creatures away, listening to them scatter about before muttering vacantly. “I’m not a jellyfish, Albert.”

“I never said you were, Taylor.”

“You’re avoiding the point, Al,” Taylor pushes again, and they can see the lines of the semblances blur to familiar, dangling limbs of dreameaters—flashing back just as swiftly. “I don’t think a lot of people would like being told how favorable a jellyfish is compared to them, either.”

“Whatever gave the impression that I was comparing?” Albert lilted, placing the teacup onto a saucer, conveniently balanced on the head of a sea jelly. “Have you been getting needed rest, recently, Taylor?”

“The only way I can talk to you is through sleeping, Al. This is _literally_ the concept of your therapy.”

Albert’s smile doesn’t budge. Taylor gives him an unamused look, and after a minute of silent refuting—Albert waves away the illusions with the turn of his wrist, and dream eaters disperse into thin air.

Taylor lifts their own cup from the saucer, finishing off the Gatorade patiently. “Just tell me one thing, okay? As your patient.”

“...Very well,” Albert beckons. “As your therapist, what is it that you need to know, my dear Taylor?”

“Is this about your arch-nemesis from college?” Taylor provokes, and the stillness of everything in the vicinity is almost _unnerving._

The atmosphere is still, as are the shoulders of the CEO—bunched up in tension akin to the same aggravation on their first session together, when Taylor was tempting death with a ragged stick and poking into open wounds. The sound of shattering glass rings out from somewhere distant, and Taylor consciously pulls their legs to hug against their frame as a dreameater’s thin, pale arm reaches from under the coffee table to retrieve the used glassware.

Then, Albert sighs, and his smile hints defeat. “...You’re very, _very_ bright, Taylor. Have I mentioned that before?”

“I dunno,” Taylor comments, and their gaze is no longer burning with rapid conviction when Albert readjusts his gloves from the distance. “What happened, anyways? You never really mentioned the call again.”

“...My phone had been blocked,” Albert eventually stated, and Taylor’s own expression must have been _incredulous—_ because the older man was speaking again in an instant, twisting the swivel chair to gaze out of the wall of windows to avoid further appraisal. “Now, before you say anything—the call went smoothly, despite the previous conflict mentioned. I kept it rather civil—we were both adults, now, so I expected it was only right to perform as such. Yet the second both ends hung on the receiver, I found I was unable to contact him again.”

Taylor gives him a moment to himself, their gaze laced with an estranged sense of pity beyond the wall that was their emotional expression.

 _“...Albert,”_ They began, and when Taylor blinked Albert was suddenly standing at the windows with his arms folded behind his back. _“Did you suggest R.M.U. just so I could track down someone you knew from college.”_

The idea must have only struck as utterly _ridiculous_ to Albert when it was finally worded aloud, epiphany unforgiving in nature as the therapist was bested—once _again—_ by Taylor’s own ruthless, unwavering tenacity.

Against the vampiristic appearance Albert carried, the man did have a reflection—and Taylor was unable to look away from the grimace mirrored in glass surfaces, unknowingly open to perception. The college student studied the expression in fascination, rarely even receiving the chance to see anything beyond a constant grin—and, in all, Taylor found the inward disappointment _hilarious._

“...That was not my intention, my dearest Taylor.” Albert lilted, flinching only to the sound of Taylor’s snickers from behind—cocking his own head back with a squinted gaze.

Taylor’s eyebrows raised, yet their amused smile curled down in order to provide a bit of understanding sympathy. “...Yeah, okay. I guess I get that. You just got wrapped up in the idea, right?”

“...I wouldn’t describe it in such a manner, but if that is your interpretation—then I suppose.”

Taylor didn’t bother to dignify the man with another response, instead shaking their head tiredly at the utter denial of it all. They stood shortly thereafter, heels tapping against the sleek flooring—and in moments, Taylor was besides the taller man, staring down at the faux city beyond the glass.

“...I’m sorry he blocked you like that. It sucks,” Taylor offered, finding how—more often than not—the only proper assistance which could be associated to that of therapy had come from their own mouth. “But maybe it’s for the better, you know? Thing’s change. The feeling of superiority came from you being the goal, but well... you might not be his goal, anymore.”

The sound of a dreameater creaking past the door rattles out, and Taylor knows it means Albert’s not exactly fond of the thought.

“That doesn’t mean you gotta lose that feeling forever, though,” They continue, and when a hesitant gaze travels over, they turn to stare back—and all at once, cherry eyes are locked on another. “I mean—just think about it, I guess. You’re the CEO of Krueger Corporations, and graduated from one of the best universities of all the districts. That’s nothing to dismiss easily. Not to mention, you have the dreameaters, don’t you? They follow everything you do so vigorously because they _look up_ to you. As weird as it is, considering what they are—but it’s whatever, in the end.”

Albert is blinking down at them, and Taylor hums the final words in a quiet manner.

_“You don’t need someone else to feel proud of who you are, Al.”_

Albert opens his mouth, in apparent response—yet closes it just as swiftly, before turning his head to no longer peer into Taylor’s own attentive eyes. They grin at the action, and sift their hands into jacket pockets before turning back to the imitive city streets below.

Minutes later, there's something tugging at the cloth—and when Taylor glances over their shoulder, Albert’s own sweetened smirk is back, and he’s holding out a bottle decorated in small jellyfish patterns. The shape of it is eerily similar to a Gatorade container, and when Taylor uncaps the bottle the aroma hits and they _know._

“Oh, hey. Sweet,” Taylor thanks, before tipping their chin back to sip at the contents gratefully. “Thanks, Al.”

“...You really are my most compelling patient, Taylor,” Albert soon offers, eyes narrowing _slightly_ in judgment once Taylor had begun to down the bottle entirely. The tone is anything but judgmental, however—and it might have been the most genuine phrase Taylor’s ever heard slip from the dream walker’s lips. “I believe I should be the one thanking you, instead.”

“...Do I still even qualify as your patient, anymore?”

“You referred to us as therapist and patient earlier, did you not?”

“I mean—I guess. That was just kinda to get you to talk,” Taylor supposes, turning up to Albert with a cocked brow—only to find the man had vanished, already returned to the swivel chair in an unexplained timeframe. “...I’d say we’re just friends, at this rate.”

Another drawl of silence plays about, and Taylor wanders to the desk carefully—leaning their elbows on the surface, before an equally amused glance is thrown back at them.

“I suppose I can say the same,” Albert reckons, and he’s kicking up legs back onto the wooden table within the next minute—curiosity prominent in his voice. A dreameater returns, presumably the same which factored as a jellyfish—as a saucer rests balanced on its head. Albert takes the new cup of tea, leaning to sip after voicing his next inquiry. “Where were you looking for an internship before our little interaction then, if I may? I have no doubt your choices have been at least narrowed down.”

Taylor pauses, recapping the bottle gently before an answer prompted forth. “Uh. Kinda funny, actually. I was looking into areas around R.M.U. for a better resume.”

_Albert is choking on his tea abruptly, and it takes Taylor and about half a dozen dreameaters for the man to recover from a wild fit of coughing—and Taylor laughs, at the end of it all, knowing that when they wake the bottle will be on the side of their bed._

...

“Mx. Lee, can I talk to you for a minute?”

Taylor blinks up from their daze, eyes finally rising from the copy machine’s ancient screen to greet the officer, holding a small nod.

“Yeah—what’s up?”

“I need to be leaving a bit early today for an anniversary date, so I was wondering if you could input this new report into the systems for me?” The officer inquires, holding out a yellow envelope gently—to which Taylor takes without a word, and the officer is cracking a grin. “Thanks, Lee—you’re a lifesaver. Don’t know how this office ran without you for so long.”

“I’m just an intern, but thanks,” Taylor hums, smiling lightly before slipping out the documents curiously—and they cock an eyebrow over before the employee has a chance to turn. “You guys get a lot of missing persons reports around here. It’s kinda weird.”

“Hm? Yeah—that’s kinda just the deal in these parts, unfortunately. I thought you’d have known about it before coming here,” The officer explains, scratching at the back of their head. “Did you get assigned here or something?”

“Ah—not really. A friend recommended areas near R.M.U., so I trusted his insight on it. Sucks that it’s so common around here,” Taylor notes, and a frown is tugging slightly when the fact is confirmed. “Have fun on your anniversary, though.”

“Aha, thank you! Seeya tomorrow, Lee!”

“Mhmm, seeya.”

When Taylor’s situated at a small desk later, with an old computer booting up the systems—they glance down, at the file of Vanora Ellis—and find that the report was only called in that morning. The last known presence of her was on the fifteenth, in a conversation on the phone. Taylor sorts through the photos shortly, and frowns at them all.

_Yet, one in particular catches their eye—and they spend an uneasy amount of time, staring at a man next to the missing girl, in the midst of a greenhouse of some kind._

__

_The boy’s face strikes too familiar for comfort, and Taylor’s thoughts drift to a man walking in dreams—to a sketch engraved on the back of a sheet of paper._

...

* * *

_Gemini  
I don’t want to die  
It’s not your time  
Ignore the zodiac  
I’ll watch your back  
You’ll make up  
For what I lack_

* * *

January 20th, 2086. 8:39 PM.

G4 District, Suburban.

...

“If you don’t put that pipe out in the next _minute_ I’m steering the wheel off the nearest cliff.”

“So _cold,_ Vincent! Did the alcohol finally make you forget how much you love me? You’d think a guy like you would warm up to me, by now.”

“After years of college harassment? Truly. I must be _madly_ enamored with you.”

“Alright—fine, fine! You win, Edgeworth!” Victor laughs, obnoxiously bold in volume as the car slowly pulls into the driveway of Vincent’s estate—parking next to a black model, sleek and unused for years. The red-head exhales one final puff of smoke for show, before metallic fingers snuff the pipe with ease. Upon waving the cigarette out the open windows to rid of excess ash, he tucks the item into his front pocket, extending his arms as if in performance for a show of hands. Vincent scoffs at the cocked eyebrows. “That good enough, hm?”

“You’re insufferable,” Vincent states, offering nothing more than a dead stare as he adjusts the collar of his suit. His arm is on the door handle in the next minute or so, one leg resting to the concrete below. “How anyone found you charming with such a patronizing personality is beyond me.”

Slams of the car resound out behind his back in subsequent order, and his skin reacts numbly to the winter air long settled against the suburban hills. An elbow is resting against his shoulder in the next second, and Vincent doesn’t even bother to stop himself from rolling his eyes.

“Shouldn’t you know the answer to that the best, Vincent? If _anything_ from college serves as a reminder..." Victor teases, and when the aroma of expensive wine and cheap smoke breathes against his cheek—Vincent is reaching an arm over his own head to shove Victor’s chin up, goatee brushing against his cold palm. The choking noise coaxed from the motion is anything but disappointing. “Agh—hey, hey! Don’t give me that, which one of us actually _had_ the ability to not piss people off back then?”

“Clearly neither of us, because your infuriating nature hasn’t changed, and neither has my disappointment of the fact,” Vincent retorts, and shut eyelids finally snap open when Victor is at his back suddenly—whining in his usual manner, and arms are wrapped over Vincent’s shoulder like a fervent _sloth. “...Victor.”_

Victor’s griping is pitched dramatically, faux sniffles resounding to Vincent’s ears—much to his vehement dismay. “You’re so _mean,_ Vincey. You never cease to wound my bleeding heart further.”

Vincent doesn’t even bother with another response, snaking an arm behind him to shuffle through the red-head’s pockets—grabbing for the keys as Victor’s own snickers filter through his auditory systems mercilessly. Once the metallic surface is in his grip, he slides a thumb over a button, and the car gives an affirmative _click_ in synchronism with locking doors.

Vincent slinks his hands into his own pockets, striding forward much to the struggling desperation of the other man—feeling the hands clasp tighter over the front of his own suit, and when Vincent finally finds himself at the walkway towards the estate’s mansion, he briefly sighs in relief once legs are no longer felt behind his—believing the other man had finally given in. Much to his chagrin, however, the next moment legs are suddenly _wrapped_ around his torso—and when Vincent stumbles in balance he can practically see the hysterical grin bloom on Victor’s face.

He’s shoving his arms back forcibly, and Victor eventually lets go with another amused laugh. Vincent turns, dusting his suit off lightly with a tone of falsified disappointment.

“What is _with_ you tonight?” Vincent probes, eyebrows raising suspiciously when memories flash to the dinner just a mere carride ago. “Perhaps you drank more alcohol than I previously thought.”

“Something wrong? I just wanted to give a little affection,” Victor fondly chides, wrapping an arm around the taller’s shoulders with lidded eyes. “Only had two glasses of Brandy, Vincey.”

“Whatever they put in that _wretched_ liquor is almost enough for me to file a lawsuit, at this rate. Learn to control yourself,” Vincent suggests with rotting sarcasm, allowing the arm around his shoulder to stay as they continue their way to the door. “Make life easier for the both of us.”

Victor sneers, poking a finger gently to Vincent’s cheek. “We both know that’s not happening, kitten.”

_“You’re about as good as dead to me, then, Victor.”_

“Such a riot, Vincent! Never change!”

“Easy enough,” Vincent sighs, and his gaze lowers to glance down knowingly. “Are you staying the night or not? The guest room isn’t exactly ready yet, from what I know.”

Victor’s pout is exaggerated, red hair brushing against Vincent’s ear as the shorter man pulled close. “Aw, what’s _that_ supposed to imply? No room for me in your bed?”

“I refuse to have the sheets reek of cigarettes, Victor,” Vincent leered, flicking the man’s forehead to pull themselves apart. “Nor will I have my shower smell of the smoke, either.”

“The smell isn’t even that strong, Vincent! Your systems are so sensitive,” Victor huffs, grin unfettered as he returns like a magnet. “I have places to be tonight, actually, but _surely_ the Edgeworths are kind enough to crack open another bottle before I go?”

Vincent’s scoff is loud against the silent wind, and the resounding laughter from Victor is almost enough to warm the surrounding air entirely—and, despite everything, a small smirk tugs against the corner of Vincent’s lips in the following minutes. Victor’s body is hot against his, practically hanging from his arms as they banter over the evening’s events, and the smell of smoke becomes more bearable over time.

The mansion’s windows are dotted darkly, however, as they finally approach the establishment—and thoughts flash over to a butler momentarily. Vincent hums at the fact, footsteps heavy against white stairs as Victor loiters behind a good distance for the security system to activate. Machinery whirs in silence behind the walls, before a green light above the door prompts Vincent forward with a rolled sleeve.

“Unlike him to finish work so early,” Vincent says, outstretching his arm carefully towards the scanner—allowing metal coils from the corners to remove the plating, inner wiring exposed for identification. A laser shade of green flutters down the workings, and after a moment, the lock buzzes in confirmation of entry—and all in a few seconds, his arm is returned to the previous condition. “Did the restaurant have proper service? I sent him a list.”

“Hm, not sure. Doesn’t matter, does it? Work is work,” Victor comments, pacing after Vincent when the darkened lobby greets his senses—and the lack of a greeting is discontenting, at the least. “Do you even pay him?”

Vincent perks his lips, removing his own jacket as the lights flash on automatically with a musing hum. “Does he _need_ to be paid, Victor?”

 _“Vincent,”_ Victor gasps, seizing his vest in a theatrical performance. “At least offer an allowance—even I know how high maintenance you are.”

“An allowance? He’s in his twenties, Victor,” Vincent remarks, hanging his suit jacket low against the back of the nearest bar stool—eyeing the other man with apprehension, as the red-head circles around the counter for the glass casing. “I pay him, you utter moron. Though that can easily change if he doesn’t help with the minted ice tonight.”

Victor’s snort is quiet, knowingly glancing back to Vincent’s gaze as the bottles aligning the cabinets are open for the take. “You are such a rich-boy, it _hurts.”_

“As if you’re one to talk, Blake,” Vincent retorts, eyeing the darkened hallways to the side of the bar—frowning only lightly as no figure turned around the corner. Draco wasn’t usually so slow, but Vincent supposed feeding the lot late was a possibility—the boy got so engrossed in work occasionally, that it took Vincent physical intervention to even snap the butler out of it all. “I’m going to the basement to get him—if you pick anything other than vodka, I _will_ kick you to the streets.”

“Alright, alright! Heard you loud and clear, kitten,” Victor exclaims, pausing a moment before beckoning Vincent closer. “Just one last thing?”

Vincent offers an expectant gaze, leaning over involuntarily. “What?”

Maroon fingers curl around Vincent’s tie, and all in a few seconds, Vincent feels lips press against the corner of his cheek firmly—to which he _sneers,_ pulling down to slide his own mouth against Victor’s. When they pull back, they’re both smirking silently, wiping the saliva away on the brim of their sleeves.

“Have fun with those _adorable_ pets of yours!” Victor comments, winking over before turning back to the shelves of liquor—already reaching for several cases of vodka as Vincent rolls his eyes.

The rest of the mansion is dark in presence, lights rested from their automatic function after the later hours of the evening—Vincent could see perfectly fine with the lack of luminosity, so the systems had not been re-activated for years now. The dark was still majorly preferred by both occupants, really, so it proved only to be in their favor—despite the several vampire comments Victor would throw their way, much to his dismay and Draco’s amusement. The remarks were often followed by another mention of Albert, which may have chalked up most of Vincent’s distaste in the comparison.

As doors and corridors layered in memory with each passing step, Vincent made mental notes towards the lack of activity—most of the objects seemed to have been untouched since early morning, confusingly. Most of them were to be cleaned in midday, and Vincent winces at the thought of Draco going through another low again. The time of year already passed, but it wasn’t entirely out of the ring of possibilities.

All train of thought firmly shatters, however, as when his hand reaches for the handle to the basement—the heavy scent of _blood_ and _flesh_ mingle into his circuitry, and a wave of _urge_ washes over unnaturally. He has to physically brace himself for a moment, cupping a hand over his mouth as false memories of salivary glands rest low.

_It doesn’t make sense. He hasn’t had such a strong reaction in years, and has more than enough raw remains resting in core reactors to accommodate for it—yet the aroma of rot is alluring, painfully so, that when he finally pushes the iron frame open he’s stumbling over his own legs. The only thing filtering through his mind is the image of a butler, and the need to consume until the floor is coated._

_“Draco?”_ Vincent calls instinctively, as the spiral of metal stairs tempts him downwards to darkened depths—and a cacophony of noises suddenly bombards all at once, accompanied with a sharp ringing to his auditory structures. A hand rushes to press against his head, though it’ll do nothing to fix anything—and he grits his teeth with a low growl at the discordance. _“...Fucking hell.”_

Something is _wrong,_ that much he knows. The onslaught of bodily dysfunction was already the furthest warning sign—yet as he descends down, each step with a heavy burden, the familiar sense of apprehension pools in his stomach. He tightens his grasp on the railing.

 _“Draco—_ they’ve been fed enough, judging by the smell. You can come up now,” Vincent calls again, and the lack of response forces his pace to quicken—his eyebrows are furrowed, now, tone reprimanding in the waterfall of unease. _“Draco—?”_

_His perception opens, as he reaches the final step before hitting the ground—and what meets his sight, much to a mix of relief and dread, is not the butler of the Edgeworth estate._

_Metal cages are pried apart, metal torn from frenzied clawing and unnatural strength. A few bars are splayed across the room, scattered in a struggle unimaginable to Vincent in the moment—not as blood coats the floor in layers, pooling carefully towards the cages. His eyes settle on sudden motion, and bright, pink eyes are staring back at him—one of the cyborgs he’s kept, for so long, hunched over a disfigured mess of blood and decay. Thoughts run to the worst, yet it's somehow more disturbing when he finds the other cyborg missing—and two and two are put together. Shutters close in on him, peripherals narrowed down, and the guttural swallow of another gush of blood and fat echoes through the vicinity._

_The cyborg ate the other._

_Vincent doesn’t have the time to dwell on the morbid amount of instincts overcoming his systems—not as a blood-curdling scream retches from the living puppet, and a heap of blood splatters to the floor as it raises. Vincent grabs the nearest shrapnel he can find—fingers trembling in their wake before the sound of creaking titanium and crashes grow louder and louder. He turns, desperately, before a mass of deterioration slams into him. Eyes flash, and he’s on the ground—arms outstretched, with the slab of metal piercing into the corners of the machine’s jaws. It has no reason to even lunge for him—lack of organs and any substance apparent, yet when the same craving floods his psyche again as blood drips down steadily—he understands it, in a sense. The desire to win. The desire to thrive. To eat until the world is yours._

_Metallic teeth are bending into the shrapnel unnaturally, slicing and lacerating till a warning groans out—and Vincent, in a panic, jams his knee upwards into the android’s gutted ribs. It shrieks, and Vincent has just enough time to thrust the mechanical doll away before the metal bar snaps into pieces between it’s maw._

_“Victor—!” Vincent shouts, already bracing against the wall as the cyborg lunges again—to which Vincent jams his hand into the open, organic cores system. He twists his fingers as if they were knives, yet the snapping of wires and joints does nothing to deter it. One broken, slanted arm is stabbing to the side of Vincent’s head—and he has to use his free arm to keep it from reaching anywhere close to his head. He falters only for a minute, when the smell of fresh harvest wafts into the room—and to his loosened grip, a thin metal pole of leftover mainframe suddenly stabs into his shoulder. He growls, audibly mechanic in tone, and pushes the cyborg farther. “Victor!”_

A gunshot rings out.

Vincent’s mind is swirling, the ringing of his auditory sensors finally dying down as he watches the metal bullet shatter the insides of the cyborg from behind it’s dim, darkened eyes. It sputters in place for a moment, vocal functionings melting to a lack of power—and then, promptly, the cyborg’s body collapses to the floor. Vincent doesn’t _hesitate_ to grab the snapped shard of metal, piercing it into the chest of the mechanical doll till he _knows_ it's long dead.

His chest is heaving, and when he finally pulls away he feels steel arms rest against his shoulder carefully—and Vincent _twists,_ in a panic, to be met with Victor’s wide eyes. A gun drops to the floor.

“Vincent?” Victor voices, and instantly the sense of dread is running dry—and Vincent’s own oil spills to the floor as he grabs at the red-heads arms in return, clasping tightly on red jointing. He’s coating the surface in a deeper maroon, but neither of them care. _“Vincent,_ what the _fuck_ is—”

“Where is he?”

“What?”

 _“Where the fuck is Draco, Victor?”_ Vincent repeats, eyes narrowed as he raises his hands to cup at the side of Victor’s face—cheeks are warm in the palm of his hands, and rubbing a thumb over the skin is the only soothing motion he can perform for himself right now. _“Was he in his room?”_

Victor’s own hands snake carefully to Vincent’s head in a similar manner, although it’s to run hands in the back of dark hair before pulling their foreheads together. “I don’t—I never checked, Vincent. Calm down. _Breathe.”_

Vincent does, and the scent of fresh meat is gone. Cigarettes trap in his nostrils.

Draco Edgeworth is missing, he belatedly realizes.

It takes _everything_ to not accidentally crush Victor’s skull between metal hands when it hits him.

...

* * *

_My private eye  
We’re never going to make it  
Look to the sky  
Someone is out to get me  
The Gemini  
I’ve had all I can take  
I think it’s time  
I go my separate ways_

* * *

˙ǝuoZ lɐᴉɹʇsnpuI 'ʇɔᴉɹʇsᴉp ㄣפ

˙WԀ 00:0Ɩ ˙980ᄅ 'ɥʇ0ᄅ ʎɹɐnuɐſ

...

It is believed that

Personalities are forged  
through experiences—

That when we are first born,  
We are no different than a ball of clay.

As we journey through life,  
We constantly change,

Being shaped either by traumatic events  
or mundanities of everyday life.

Even if it’s something as trivial as  
the food you eat, the coffee you buy,  
or the time you clock into work,

Those unassuming things,  
They alter the paths to our fate  
without us recognizing it.

And of course,  
when a person loses their memories,  
their origins are gone.

But there is one thing that always lingers at  
the back of my mind;

What would happen if someone gains memories...  
that don’t belong to them?

......

I would love to find out  
what they become.

...

* * *

_Gemini  
When I close my eyes  
It’s time to hide  
I’m stepping back  
Then I attack  
You speak for me  
Everything goes black_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song referenced in this chapter (and the next) is "GeminEye - The Megas" if anyones curious!!
> 
> hoooOOO first fanfic !! its about vtsom bcause my brainrot is endless BJSDJSD. but anyways
> 
> if u wanna talk to me, my twitter is @cinemarss !!


	2. Gemini - Act II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A boy returns to the waking world, a call is made, and memories resurface.

_Gemineye  
How could I be so blind  
Falling behind  
We’re alike in mind  
Two of a kind  
But it’s getting lost  
With the more you find_

* * *

January 20th, 2086. 8:29 PM.

G4 District, Industrial Zone.

...

Reactions tend to register faster than the physical pain.

It’s a given fact, really—sometimes a human child will begin to cry before they even understand what’s wrong, and when the pain does finally strike the nerves the reaction is coaxed further. It’s a survival mechanism, your body’s way of preventing the lack of sensation from causing a potential death.

Which is why, before heavy eyes are even able to open, a man winces with a soft groan before a wave of nausea and throbbing agony crashes down all at once.

It’s as if he can feel the individual pumps of blood swarming around his nerves, carrying with it pressure so harsh that his hands tugged at his hair to bring some form of relief. None came, much to his dismay. His body instinctively curled in on itself against cold, tiled flooring—knees tucked into his chest as eyelids attempted to close further. He’s unsure he’s ever even experienced a migraine this strenuous.

The rest of his senses return, eventually. His mouth tastes metallic and sour, and swallowing does nothing to get rid of it. His hands first feel the world again, then his legs, then the rest of his shivering frame—and he’s grateful long sleeves are adorning pale arms, as otherwise, the ground below would have been all the more unforgiving. The air itself is near freezing, as well—despite the whirs of machinery buzzing distantly, no heating system seemed to be active in the area.

Eyes struggle to flutter open, and the boy quickly realizes he has no recollection of where that area happens to be.

His vision is dark, at first. Faint outlines of walls and objects are muddy at best, and when another pulse of discomfort flashes through his brain the lines double further. He shuts his eyes again, moving one hand to dig fingers gently into his sockets to pressurize down the irritation. The other arm slowly props his back up, nudging his body backwards until he hits a wall stable enough for his own support—in which his spine is shoved so roughly against the surface that he’s sure it could bruise, if not for his hypersensitivity.

He doesn’t know how long he stays in that position, exhaling slowly in an effort to calm himself down before he finally allows eyes to open again. His vision has improved significantly, and with that he realizes his own eyesight was not as bad as initially expected—the room is _dark._ He could only presume it was late at night, judging how shadows wavered unceremoniously no matter where his gaze turned.

He frowned. He didn’t recognize any of this.

He immediately pats himself down for his phone, and when that endeavor leaves efforts fruitless, his frown deepens considerably. The area smelled musky, old with dust piling from abandonment, and the lack of fresh air does nothing to help the gentle panic settling in.

He mustn’t allow himself to lose composure, however. This would be fine—he just needs to find a way to recollect what had happened, and how he ended up here. A simple location would do, even.

The man initially sets out to begin investigating immediately, but the second he tries to scuffle his boots against the ground—he pauses. He has no reason to, as his pain is becoming at the least tolerable, but there’s something within his gut that tells him to remain still for a few more minutes. He supposes he has nothing to lose from it, exactly.

Distantly, his ears faintly recall the sound of metal against metal and a low groan. He doesn’t budge.

The sound doesn’t occur again, and finally—as another ten minutes or so go by, the gut instinct dies down to rest. Hands brace themselves against the checkered, linoleum floor, and soon his body is in the air with nothing but legs to keep himself up.

He leans against the wall again, breathes, and forces more movement. He can’t delay the investigation forever.

The man decides to play it safe, at first, and he presses one arm above his head on the wall before he even thinks of walking forward. Eyes linger down for a moment, and when eyes are finally able to separate a dried, red liquid from where he was lying—he swallows uncomfortably again. The metallic taste is still there.

The room he’s in is about medium in size, with around two doors visible from where he is—one of the doors being up a flight of stairs, much to his disappointment and ache. Pipes line along the ceiling and walls with ease, and it’s obvious to him now he's in the introductory area of a boiler system—presuming the door on the same level as him to lead to the actual infrastructure. He’s near a few shelves and boxes, filled with equipment he could name if he had the time.

Slowly, he lowers his arm, and begins inching forward into the open. The area is quiet, the pipes in the room appearing unused if it were not for the constant buzz—which he was eventually able to identify as the system in the next room over. He wanders towards a few documents and laminated posters on the walls, squinting and cupping the side of his head in order to read the text coherently.

Most of it is safety protocols, he figures. It calls for the emergency items necessary for an accident or event—the standards he would expect from any general institution, really. The only noteworthy piece of information he could gather was the term _G4_ —the district he most certainly had to be in, at the moment.

The issue was, _where_ in G4?

The boy had to search a little more, unfortunately—eventually drawn to the various pipes leading in and out of the room’s surface. There’s a dull, generated floor light near a series of vents, green in hue and just about on its last hours of life. It’s barely anything, but the light provides another sting in his eyes and the opportunity to read the labels on the vents—an activity he takes his time with.

_Design, Create, Enhance. Myers Corporation._

Issue solved, then. The words ring bells in his mind—yet any attempt into digging further to that sensation causes his vision to haze over more. He leaves it alone, for now, not willing to risk more strain on his own psyche.

If he were in Myers Corporation—which he could only assume to be a factory line, by its name—then he would be in one of the lower levels and boiler systems of such an establishment. With the dark atmosphere and lack of employee activity or security, he can also assume he’s awake during the later hours of the night.

It’d be simple to leave and gather himself together, at the very least. A janitor or two was all that would be required to call a number for him, and he’d be off at last—yet it all still felt unreasonable, somehow. Perhaps it was because when he glances down at his own hands, a bit of blood under well-kept nails, he still cannot recall how he had arrived here. The sour sensation on his tongue worsens.

The man quickly makes his mind to leave as soon as possible, finding the worries building in his consciousness unnecessary for comprehension or care. He makes way to the stairs, hands carefully grabbing at the railing before he traveled his way up with more effort than he ever wanted to admit. When he arrives at the top, however, the door knob doesn’t budge—and a few more tries leaves nothing in return for him.

He groans, resting his head against the door’s frame before turning back and retracing his steps.

Once again at the lower ground level, he turns his attention to the other door—the one leading to the rest of the heating and gas systems. There had to be another exit in that room, as well—the safety protocols from earlier dictating at least one be in each room in cases of an emergency. When this knob turns under his firm grasp, he smiles a little in relief, before pushing himself through to the other side.

This room is similar in design to the previous, albeit much longer and cramped in its machinery. He spots the other exit door soon enough, and as he makes his way over in a slow stroll—he presses his hands into his front pockets. He makes note that his clothes aren’t ruined, thankfully—aside from a few patches of dirt and other splatters he’d rather not identify. With the blood in his nails and on the earlier floor, he at least manages to piece together that he hit his head. Hard. Which would explain the migraine, as well as general fatigue and urge to pass out.

He’s contemplating contacting a doctor in worry of a concussion before his train of thinking is interrupted suddenly. A drop of liquid splashes down on him from above, and with a frown, he brushes his hair with his hand before turning his gaze to the source.

He doesn’t see much—the ceiling dark and obscured by the various pipes. It was most likely a leakage from one of the lines, but then when he squints at the pipes directly above he notices something. Something _off._

None of the machines are on.

The mechanical buzz was still present, closer in volume from his previous location—yet none of the vents vibrated in purpose to indicate they were even used. An unfamiliar sense of dread closes in on his throat, and as his eyes narrow further to the ceiling above—a different form can finally be discerned.

It was not a pipe.

 _“...What the hell is—?”_ The man begins, voice merely a whisper beneath a low breath—yet he finds that, in just a few seconds, speaking at all would be his biggest regret. His own eyes widen as a sudden light peers down at him, and as the light appears more liquid drops thick from above.

A pair of eyes, a face, disfigured and contorted in manic malfunction. An empty smile rests on that mangled form, and as the man stares up in shock the object moves. He hears it clicking, metal scratching against worn joints and material, and he nearly grows sick when he realizes the liquid coating the creature is dark and red.

It was blood.

He doesn’t even earn a chance to stumble back before a blood-curdling scream wretches from the varmint’s throat. The boy could _hear_ the vital fluids and wires tangling with its voice, glitched and sliced into layers discording against the eagerly missed silence—it was raw, vile, and vulgar. It was everything that made the headache slam harder against his skull.

Then, it surges down, and his own yell is forgotten as the metal weight nearly _crushes_ him right then and there.

He blinks his eyes open, and suddenly he’s on the floor—arms outstretched and quavering against it’s pitiful replication of a chest. Blood and oil and chunks of _something_ smear between his fingers, and warmth is dripping down his face crudely. He’s unable to tell if it’s his own sweat, or the saliva pooling down from the monster’s mouth.

It’s snapping, it’s pushing—and instantly, the boy knows one simple thing.

He’s going to die if it remains on him longer.

He shouts in tune with it’s own gargled clamoring, and more strength than he ever knew he could muster was brought up in order to try to shove it off—knees kicking up and legs jamming against its body as if he had no control over muscles anymore. The machine’s glowing eyes fixated and locked on his person, the gleam of energy causing his own adrenaline to accelerate rapidly as survival overpowered all other concepts.

It’s jaws snapped up and down wildly, nearing his face as he let out another scream and struggled further—his left hand digging uncomfortably into what felt like fat and decay, organs and blood and mucus and other bodily structures far too lost to his own mind. It cries audibly in response, yet only seems to motivate it further, to his dismay—and tears are just about to bead at the corner of his vision before another sound rams into his perception.

_“Gotcha, fuckin’ blood-guzzler!”_

Then, suddenly there's a _crash_ —his ears ringing uncontrollably before the weight on his body is lifted. He doesn’t take the time to process, forcing his limbs to scramble up as fast as possible as his head reels in whirling motions. The boy can barely even see before another scream rings out, and when he blinks and the dark spots of his irises dissipate—the given scene is enough to make him choke on his own spit.

 _“Come to mama, shitstain, c’mon!”_ A shrieking laughter proclaims, voice high-pitched and giddy as various weights are thrown about the room in the feud. Sharp teeth grin maniacally as a woman jams a large pipe into the machine’s eye—to which it howls in response and lunges back. _“That’s right, Zalmona’s gonna teach you a real fuckin’ good lesson—show me what’tchya got, helldoll!”_

The boy doesn’t have time to even do anything to assist. He watches—in utter _awe_ —as the woman twists the pipe further and slams a boot down onto the creature’s chest. Blood splatters across the ground mindlessly as heels dug into something akin to lungs, and when the machine screeches further and pushes back, suddenly the woman is across the room—dashed back with glee.

The android moves with inhuman speed, crawling across the floor as wires and circuits snap out of its casing. The stranger jumps up on a pipeline, snickering in a sadistic tone as she broke the metal in pieces almost instantly—causing the rubble to fall onto the robotic mess barbarically. It’s in obvious distress, chirping out incessantly to free itself and tear the girl limb from limb—but it never gets the chance.

The woman pulls something out of her coat, and the next thing the boy hears is loud, trembling bangs of a bullet—hitting the chest of the puppet till it’s eyes dim to black. Even then, it doesn't stop, and an entire ammo’s worth is wasted before the woman tilts her head back in roaring laughter.

 _“Hoo—that feels fuckin’ good! Fuck you, bitchass!”_ She exclaims, kicking it out from under the pipes to press a firm boot onto it’s lifeless exoskeleton. She pokes at it’s head with a slim, inhuman finger after returning the gun to her person—nudging at the machine as if it were just a toy. “God, I missed fucking you cyborgs up! The police get so boring, nowadays!”

The man blinks at her, mouth agape and eyebrows furrowed in shock. His jaw clamps back tightly soon enough, however, as the woman’s eyes dart to him in mere seconds and her grin widens.

“Did’jya like that, kid? Pretty good, right?” She inquires, nodding down at her work proudly before extending her arms for show. Her motions are eccentric and jittering, clear euphoria and adrenaline pumping her system as if it were a drug. Intoxicating, raw, and sour. “Could’ve fucked with it more, but this one seemed a lil’ desperate, huh? Fuckers’ll do anything just to munch on a goddamn leg or something.”

The boy nearly tastes blood when he bites his cheek, and his own question is shoved quickly before she can even finish her rambling. “What in all fucking _hell_ was that?”

The woman’s eyes widen a little at the outburst, yet her grin only seems to grow as her eyebrows raise expectantly. Eyelids lowered smugly, and she kneeled down till her right knee was pressed into the ground—the other raised up, foot still digging into the android’s corpse. She takes her sweet time, resting an arm on the outstretched leg before boasting out once more.

 _“This_ right here, my fuckin’ chum, is a cyborg,” The woman—Zalmona, if he recalls—states as a matter-of-fact. She slaps it’s head for good measure for a second or two. “Man-made monstrosities intent on eating the human race alive! Ain’t that something?”

The explanation sinks something awful in his gut. He doesn’t even know why, yet nothing could stop as unbridled paranoia and apprehension suspended over his innards like a bridge—ready to crash into the waters of terror any minute. He didn’t offer the girl a response again, instead readjusting his own bowtie as he swallowed down. She noticed.

“Jeez, calm the fuck down, kid!” Zalmona laughs out loud. It’s patronizing, sharp and uncomfortable, and he finds his shoulders tensing instinctively in distaste as her predatory gaze locks in on him. Her arm is still resting on her knee, and he belatedly realizes both of her limbs are robotic entirely. “The thing’s fucking dead. Gonezo. Trust me, okay?”

Her eyebrows narrow, grin suddenly turning to a sneer. “You’re gonna piss me off if you don’t.”

Without any time to even stop himself, the man just glares down at her from where he stood—one eyebrow cocked in a challenging motion as he grit his teeth at her. Crossing his arms, his own chin tilted up, and the woman groaned in response.

 _“Eugh._ Whatever,” Zalmona sneers, and she’s standing up straight again before her boot grinds into the cyborg’s skull, digging down as if she were putting out a cigarette on the sidewalk. The metal creaks under pressure, and all too fast it _shatters_ —blood and screws scattering against the tiled floor in a rush as the cyborg’s structure collapses in on itself. “Who the hell are you, anyways? Not everyday I meet someone who can make it all the way down here without getting their organs eaten like _crazy.”_

“...I—” He begins, yet his mouth snaps shut a second later as his hand lingers in the air. He almost freezes entirely, gaze unfocused and downwards as his eyebrows furrow. The question leaves him sick, yet the woman’s arched brows and smirk leave him choking out an answer forcibly. “—I don’t know.”

Zalmona blinks, intrigued. “You don’t know? The fuck that’s supposed to mean?”

“It means I don’t _know,_ miss,” The man emphasizes, suddenly glaring back up at her with far more attitude than he would expect of himself. His mind is racing, scrambling for any answer it can manage as to who he was—anything, a name, a location, a home. But nothing comes up. He ignores how his own lungs heave. “....I don’t—know. Who I am.” 

A moment of silence passes.

“Hah! Well, that fuckin’ sucks,” Zalmona snorts, and the man finds most of his confusion switching to aggravation. The sharp-toothed woman doesn’t seem to care, though—if anything, she enjoys how she’s pissing him off. “Just a little boy stuck in the depths of Myers with no memories— _boohoo!_ Give me a sob story I actually care about, dipshit.”

He doesn’t dignify her with the yelling she wants. “Thanks, then. I appreciate it.”

“Ugh, lighten up a bit! Just fuckin’ with you, y’know? I only ever see ‘Nora and Viv’ these days, cut me some slack,” Zalmona complains, and suddenly she’s by his side and patting his shoulder tauntingly. The names from earlier don’t even register. “Listen here, kid. You’re gonna come with me, or I’ll beat the shit out of you like Cyborg McGee over there, got it? Maybe then, I’ll help out with whatever shit you have going on.”

 _“Why?”_ He pushes, gently removing her bloodied, mechanical hand from his shoulder. “What are you even doing here—and who exactly are you?”

“Oh, _shit!_ Got a real amnesiac here!” Zalmona muses, circling around his shorter frame with interest—before suddenly he’s grabbed harshly, a damaged hand pulling at his chin and forcing the two of their noses to nearly touch. _“I’m not fuckin’ repeating this again, asshole. The name’s Zalmona—most wanted criminal in G4, got it? I’d watch whatever you fuckin’ say from now on.”_

Then, he’s released, and he still has the gall to scoff at her in disgust as her rough smirk returns. She doesn’t seem to notice. “I’m here ‘cause I wanna be. Now, you can either be fed to the first piece of living scrap metal I see—or you can come with me in the vents and avoid getting your face ripped off! What’ll it be?”

“...Fine,” The boy sighs, shoulders letting down in defeat as he glances up at her tiredly—headache still pounding against his veins. “I’ll come with— _if_ you promise to help me get out of here.”

“Great! Glad to see you came around, twinkface!” Zalmona exclaims, wrapping an arm around his shoulder and guiding him away from the cyborg corpse as if they were old friends. They weren’t, he decided. She didn’t answer his second phrase. “C’mon, now—happen to see a watch around here, by chance?”

The boy glances back momentarily at the pool of metal and blood as the woman goes on and on, and strangely, seeing it dead leaves him feeling worse than ever.

...

* * *

_Gemini  
I forget my name  
It’s all the same  
So I’m taking yours  
Of course, of course  
We’re trapped in here  
Someone locked the door_

* * *

January 21st, 2086. 11:23 AM.

G4 District, Suburban.

...

“I don’t _care_ how long it fucking takes, Winston.”

Vincent can barely even recognize his own voice, deep and brutal in it’s piercing tone—the same voice he hadn’t used for five years, not since he took his last case and disappeared to the public eye. He can hear excessive typing from the other line, only able to imagine the low frown the other man held on his face.

Vincent pinches his nose, sighing. He continues softly, ignoring the shuffling of Victor in the next room. “Just... please, get the coordinates as soon as you can. It’s urgent.”

 _“An explanation of how urgent would be nice,”_ Winston mutters from the speaker, and Vincent knows the only reason the guy’s talking back is because he can’t see Vincent’s eyes. _“It’ll take a bit, sir. I’ll get them to you—but it might take hours or days, depending on where it actually is.”_

“As long as I can get them, I don’t exactly care,” Vincent answers coolly, suppressing the urge to snap. “He’s gone _missing,_ Winston. That’s the severity we’re dealing with.”

_“Victor?”_

“Draco, actually.”

The other line is silent, as Vincent expected, and instantly he can hear the shuffling of papers and documents. The noises are frantic.

 _“...Alright, I’ll get them to you. Don’t leave your phone on silent, I’m calling back as soon as the location is clear,”_ Winston tells him, and Vincent can almost feel the relief cooling his systems. _“I’m activating the security measures on your phone again.”_

“Enable the ones on Victor’s, too.”

 _“Okay.”_ The call then cuts off, ending abruptly as it always did when it came to the ex-employee.

Vincent collapses back into the couch, shutting his eyes with a long sigh as the soft cushions beckoned him in. He raised one arm to cover his face, the other still gripping onto the phone tightly. He barely even notices Victor approaching, before a metal arm is suddenly on his—raising it away from his face. Vincent’s gaze is greeted with another look of concern.

“You doing okay, Vince?” Victor asks on instinct, handing down a mug of hot chocolate for the man to take before circling around to join him on the couch. Vincent immediately detects the aroma of pig’s blood inside, and he downs a sip in mere seconds. Better than alcohol, at this rate.

“...I’m fine. Just—tired,” Vincent eventually offers, the usual banter between the two long forgotten. “Can’t exactly contact the police about this subject, nor do anything myself. As usual.”

“Hey—c’mon, now,” Victor reassures, and Vincent feels the man’s arm snake around his shoulder to pull him closer. His voice still is laced with it’s usual joking tone, yet dulled to an uncomfortable degree. “If anyone’s gonna find his phone, it’s Winston. You know that.”

Vincent exhales. “Yes. I do.”

“You sure he didn’t answer any of those texts or calls?”

“Unfortunately,” Vincent nods, sipping down at the mug again as he unconsciously leaned into the touch offered. “I’ve been keeping my eyes on the same screen for hours. Nothing.”

Victor doesn’t say anything else, instead stretching his own neck to rest his nose in Vincent’s hair—thumb gently rubbing at the crook of Vincent’s shoulder blade. He sinks deeper into the sofa, allowing himself to curl in. Just as he did in college, he recalls—and he would’ve smirked at the irony in any other situation.

“Draco’s going to be fine,” Victor mutters, and Vincent hands him the mug to place on the coffee table before resting his own chin in the crook of Victor’s neck. He can hear the red-headed man smile, small and fondly. “You know he’s going to. Little guy’s impossible to get rid of.”

“...I wish that were the case,” Vincent mutters, and the next thing he knows his arms are wrapped around Victor entirely—a warm embrace, inviting and soothing beyond any comfort the gin bottles could give. The sound of Victor’s heart beating is _intoxicating._ “I’m just so sick of it, Victor.”

Victor’s voice is strained. “I am too, kitten.”

Vincent doesn’t snap back at the nickname, this time. Just shuts his eyes against the other man’s shirt and _breathes._

...

* * *

_My private eye  
We’re never going to make it  
Look to the sky  
Someone is out to get me  
The Gemini  
I’ve had all I can take  
I think it’s time  
I go my separate ways_

* * *

January 19th, 2086. 11:00 PM.

G4 District.

...

A man leans back in his chair, closing out of the computer screen calmly as a gentle, affirmative smile tugs at the corner of his lips. A job well done, it seems. Efforts finally resulting in the rewards.

 _“Found you, my dearest vermin,”_ He mutters to nobody, turning his gaze to the city below. _“Seems you’re finally caught, this time. How nice of you; to bring something else of mine back in return... It’s almost as if it were a late Christmas gift, non?"_

The man’s mind flashes to a set of black hair, and his grin widens.

_“Oh—how fun this will be, Vincent. I hope you enjoy yourself while you can.”_

...

* * *

_My private eye  
We’re never going to make it  
Look to the sky  
Someone is out to get me  
The Gemini  
I’ve had all I can take  
I think it’s time  
I go my separate ways_

* * *

January 20th, 2086. 10:08 PM.

G4 District, Industrial Zone.

...

“Vanny?”

A soft voice murmurs out in the midst of silence, and if the sensitivity nerves were in working order, Vanora would have felt the gentle tug of smaller hands splayed against her arm. She didn’t need to feel it to know, however.

“Yes, Vivi? What is it?” Vanora hums, turning from her task of rummaging through a few shelves to look at the shorter girl. The child’s eyebrows were slanted down, as they always were. “Are you having trouble sleeping again?”

Vivian offered a small nod, whining expectantly with tight lips—to which Vanora smiled delicately, twisting her body around and pressing her own back to the shelf. She crossed her legs, raising her arms wide for Vivian to take. She did, and Vanora rubbed her hand against the back of the girl’s head.

“There we go—better this way, right?” Vanora hummed, laughing lightly under her own breath as Vivian’s chin bobbed in an attempt of a nod. The girl didn’t exactly allow herself to move much from the space atop Vanora’s shoulder. “What’s up, hm?”

Vivian shifted in a moment of silence, positioning herself to lay in the older woman’s lap. “...When’s Zalmona coming back?”

“She’ll be back soon, Vivi—she’s getting supplies, remember?”

“But we can get supplies _here,”_ Vivian pouted, glossy eyes offering a defiant gaze as Vanora felt her curl in to grip at her shirt. “She’s always off doing stuff.”

Vanora paused for a moment, before eventually breaking into a laugh, shaking her head affectionately. Leaning down, she rubbed her cheek dotingly against Vivian’s hair, to which the girl whined in protest and attempted to struggle out of the hug—the same she was asking for, moments ago. “Yes, she is, isn’t she? I know you don’t like it—but she’s gotta get the stuff from dangerous areas. It’s to keep us safe, Vivian.”

“It’s _never_ safe here—that’s why mama and papa aren’t back yet...” Vivian huffed, her own cherub face red in embarrassment, cheeks blowing up as she crossed her arms. “What’s so important anyways? Why can’t we go with her?”

“Honey, c’mon now—you know,” Vanora shushed, raking gentle fingers between the strands of Vivian’s hair to fix the knots—swallowing down the urge to flinch at the mention of her parents. Again. “We can’t keep you near cyborgs. She’s getting stuff so we can protect ourselves.”

“I’m _tired_ of cyborgs,” Vivian blurts, and Vanora doesn’t have to see the girl’s hands to know they’re curled into fists, folded in her lap. “I’m tired of them and their stupid faces and their screams. It’s not fair.”

“...I know it isn’t, darling.”

“...Can we sleep anywhere else, soon...?”

Vanora nodded. “If that’s what you want. We just need to find a place, okay?”

“...Okay.”

They stayed like that for a considerable amount of time—Vanora humming a gentle tune as she combed through jet-black locks carefully. It was quiet, the only noises being the occasional groans from distant ways off in the factory—groans that the three of them had grown uncomfortably used to. This stillness was not of the usual suspense, however, much to Vanora’s relief—it was serene, the same lull as the night all three of them had spent on Christmas.

Alone, and happy. Pretending it was all okay. Silence in their found sense of security.

The silence that befitted a home, really. Not much of a surprise—her home was long lost to her, and in finding the two of them, she found a new abode that carried wherever they went.

Vivian yawned again, shortly, and Vanora let out a small scoff.

“Shouldn’t you be going back to sleep now, dear?” She suggested, tilting her head around the girl to beam down with a nudge. “You’re yawning as if you haven’t slept in days.”

“...Mnm—no,” Vivian hummed, shaking her head tiredly before forcing her small hands to rub at her eyes, tugging at the upper cheeks. “Gotta... wait for Zalmona to get back. I wanna see her.”

“You’re going to pass out soon, honey—”

“I’ll help with work...! Please?” Vivian turned to Vanora expectantly, eyes wide and pleading as she gripped at the light blue fabric on Vanora’s chest. She shook it slightly, voice still slightly slurred in her exhaustion. “I’ll put away the nails and stuff!”

Vanora squinted at her, frowning. “...Screws, Vivi. No nails.”

“Does that mean I can stay up?”

Vanora sighed after a moment, giving her an accepting nod—to which she had to grab Vivian’s excited arms to stop them from accidentally knocking anything over, snickering to herself. “Yes, yes—c’mon! Up you go, work’s not gonna get done from down here.”

Vivian eagerly stood after a moment of struggle, and she was already rocking back on her feet by the time Vanora was up—raising an eyebrow in amusement. Without a word, she handed her a box or two, pointing to the containers on the other side of the room—and Vivian was off in an instant, sorting the different shapes as if she had done it her whole life.

Vanora rolled her eyes fondly from her own shelf, unable to stop her knowing grin before she turned back to her previous task—shifting around a few of the boxes and files restlessly. Her right arm locked a few times, unfortunately—and she had to quietly slam down on the elbow joint with her fist before it would even begin working again. She hadn’t found the time to repair it, yet—too nervous about the changes it could bring.

God knows she couldn’t risk Vivian not willing to hold onto her, anymore.

Vanora swiftly shoved that thought to the side, however—they had enough scrap to fix it since the last incident with Zalmona’s arm. It wouldn’t be an issue, she just had to wrack her brain together to think of a solution befitting of her needs.

The next thirty minutes or so had been drawn out exactly the same—with Vivian only occasionally asking for help and tapping her shoulder. They were nearly done, by this point, with the smaller storage room almost cleaned out entirely of what they needed—but before Vanora could ask Vivian to pass something over, the little girl gasped excitedly.

“Zalmona’s back!” Vivian exclaimed, pulling on Vanora’s arm before letting go of her own volition, bouncing eagerly in place in wait for the door to unlock. Soon enough, Zalmona’s voice did enter her auditory—a bit down the halls, if she could guess. She would normally attempt to question how good the girl’s hearing was, but it wasn’t the topic at hand, for the moment.

Zalmona did occasionally talk to herself, yes—but it sounded like a conversation.

Vanora frowned, and Vivian soon tucked behind her at the realization of having to meet someone else—both hands tugging at the loose metal wrist attached. Vanora offered a small shush of assurance, before reaching a hand to her belt and tugging out a small bottle of pepper spray expectantly.

 _“—Noraaaa! You’ll never guess what I found!”_ Zalmona laughed from behind the door, and soon enough the frame was shoved open—the woman’s familiar, toothy smirk greeting her in all its glory. Vanora frowned at the blood staining her clothes.

“You—didn’t bring a person, did you?” Vanora questioned instantly, offering a disapproving gaze. “You _know_ what I told you..."

“Aw, c’mon! Relax—I could beat this kid’s shit if I wanted, anyways!” Zalmona dismissed, scoffing in her usual manner with a small wave of her hand—slim eyes turning to whoever else was in the hall. Vanora couldn’t see them. “I almost did, actually. But he seems like good bait in case cyborgs fuckin’ get annoying, y’know?”

Vanora’s about to voice another scolding—but a new voice cuts her off.

“Lovely. I feel so valued, here,” A boy’s voice muttered sarcastically, and Vanora feels her heart plummet down all in a moment—she can’t do anything, before suddenly a head of black hair is forced into view by Zalmona. Vivian buries her head into Vanora’s back at the sudden appearance.

The rest of the words between the two are a blur to Vanora. Her mouth is dry, eyes wide before her grip slackens and glass suddenly shatters against the floor. Everyone’s eyes are on her now, confused, but she can’t understand any of them or what they’re saying.

She’s not even breathing at this rate, she realizes—but it doesn’t do anything to stop her from muttering lowly, eyes suddenly stinging with liquid pain.

_“Draco?”_

...

* * *

_I think we’ll never  
Leave this deadly place  
I know we’ll never  
See the light of day  
Again_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i dont understand how i wrote this all in the span of like 3 hours but ill take it
> 
> anyways, hope you enjoyed chapter 2!! thank you to everyone who left feedback on the last chapter (on here and twitter) i love u all so bad <33


	3. The Haystack Principle - Act I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor Blake, and the reflections of life.

_This is not my home  
It’s where I’m locked away  
It’s in my design  
It’s not my circuitry  
This is not who I am_

* * *

December 24th, 2076. 5:45 PM.

G4 District, City Center.

...

Victor Blake wasn’t exactly the most careful of men.

He had always been told such a fact, ever since he was a child—that his reckless nature, albeit charming when paired with his smile, would come back one day to bite him in the ass.

He didn’t necessarily doubt that statement. It had just always drifted to the back of his mind, forgotten with the rest of the small tidbits in his day to day life. It was fair for him to dismiss such a thing, really—anyone would tell you the same, when conversations run dry and topics are being pulled like straws. Victor’s sure, if he tried, he’d only be able to scrounge up a few instances where the saying could be applied; the karma would be so miniscule, though, that anyone listening would be half tempted to smack him across the back of his head.

Victor was careless at times, yes. But luck ran a course through his veins like a drug, so to him, life was just another gamble to take part in. He owned the roulette table, spinning to the numbers in his favor as months blurred past. Days were just the dice in the palm of his hand, and he’d throw as he saw fit to play the fool.

Today was not one of those days, however.

The metaphorical dice had long tumbled to the floor in the early hours of the day, which is why Victor Blake—soon to be graduate from RMU—was stumbling over himself on the side of the street and cursing like a sailor. 

He wouldn’t go off to call it out of character for himself, really. There had been so many times the landlord called him up after classes to explain another noise complaint from the neighbors, that he and Vincent had shouted far too much in the late and drunken hours of the night. He’d let swears slip between his lips in any given situation, confident enough that his own social skills made up for any lack of professionalism. It was why he called himself Vincent’s other half, really—he had the wits and charm, and Vincent had the moodiness and strict studying schedule akin to a vampire. Two peas in a pod, if he said so himself.

Yet this cursing was aggravated—sharp beneath his hot breath and shivering frame, nothing but a way to get rid of his annoyance before returning to the task at hand. He slammed his boots down against the pavement of the sidewalk for a few moments, hoping most of the snow would fall off without sinking into the material. He already dealt with wet socks more than enough this season.

After the efforts proved fruitless, Victor sighed and pushed his hair back, before eventually strolling into the store with less than a casual stance. Almost everyone was at their houses for the evening, which he was grateful for—but the clerk seemed the exact opposite, in the moment. The employee offered a roll of eyes at Victor’s presence, and the red-headed man did nothing but wink in response.

After another ten minutes or so of _frustratingly_ difficult fumbling, Victor placed down the several items onto the front counter with a heavy sigh—taking the moment to readjust his scarf and general appearance.

“Merry Christmas,” The clerk mumbled, the words so automated that Victor had to swallow the urge to snicker. Items were pushed over the scanner lazily. “Any plans tonight?”

“Nah,” Victor hummed, eyebrows raised after a moment of contemplation—crossing his arms as he leaned against the nearby wall, littered in old fliers and posters. “S’too cold, y’know?”

The teenager glanced up at him with narrowed eyes, a classic sign of the highschool judgement burning strongly in their blood. “No family dinner?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” Victor comments, rubbing the back of his head with a sly grin. “The hell you doing working the Christmas shift?”

“Manager’s a bitch as always,” The clerk responds, shoulders relaxing slowly as Victor showed no signs of being an annoyance. They eyed the choice of items after a moment. “Doesn’t matter, I guess. We don’t do dinner back at home, but..."

“But it’s better than being stuck in a fucking 7-11, yeah?” Victor finishes, cupping his chin before turning his eyes to the empty store. “Honestly? I’d say ditch it, enjoy your vacation while you can.”

“God, I wish. Dad’ll kill me if I get canned, though,” They groan, taking Victor’s ID as soon as the alcohol was on the scanner. “A paycheck is a paycheck, in the end.”

“And? Christmas is fucking _Christmas,_ dude. Here—” Victor starts, nudging the wallet between his fingers and removing it from his back pocket—sifting through the contents before pulling out two bills. “Take it.”

The clerk blinks up at him in obvious disbelief, pausing from shuffling the items into the cheap, plastic bags. “...I can’t take something like that.”

“You can and will, dear. No refusing,” Victor pushes, sliding the money across the counter with a sleazy wink—not finding the lack of weight in his pockets to be all that concerning. Not as if he had anybody to spend money on for Christmas, anymore. “I’m gonna be the last customer for the day, anyways.”

“...Thank you,” They whisper, and instantly the bags are offered to Victor to take—and the smile on the teenager’s face is more than enough, in the moment, to forget how utterly _shitty_ the day has been. “Need a receipt?”

“Nah,” Victor hums, and soon, he’s making his way out the door with another simper across his face. “Have a good Christmas, dear! Don’t try the spiked eggnog—hangover’s gonna be a _bitch!”_

The laughs that soon leave his perception cause his own snickers to spring forth, shaking his head at how ridiculous it all was—if he were in any situation as that, he’d probably have punched the manager and still gotten away with a bonus in a few months. The only one to scold him would be Vincent, really—who he knows, deep down, would’ve done the exact same.

The good mood is instantly shattered, however, as his boots catch on the thin sheet of ice outside and he nearly cracks his own head open—barely able to keep himself up against the frame of the nearest bench. Metal collides with the nape of his neck, and he can already _feel_ a nasty bruise ready to blossom against pale skin—and he’s swiftly reminded of how, today, karma’s eyes were locked on Victor Blake.

_Joy._

By the time his trembling hands are jamming the key into the apartment door, the amount of times he’s tripped over his own feet into snow are too many to count. The temperature was anything but forgiving, the winds only worsening the bites of numb pain against red ears. He almost twisted his ankle trying to keep the gin from shattering against the road, and his plans soon changed to downing the whole thing as soon as he got the chance. He’s soaked from head to toe and, maybe, just _maybe—_ he can cut Vincent a bit of slack on the moodier days, now.

As the lock clicks and he begins shoving his shoes off hastily, a few distant meows call to him excitedly—and suddenly a blur of white fluff is at his feet, rubbing against damp jeans. He pauses.

“...Mittens? What’s gotten you all riled up?” Victor muses, eyebrows furrowed as he instinctively shut the door to keep her from getting out—eventually leaning down to rub behind the cat’s ears after stepping off the mat. A few purrs are let out, before her small paws patter off and she disappears behind the corner.

Victor cocks an eyebrow—the cat was affectionate at times, yet never to that extent. Vincent usually had the girl around his body at all times, and on the few nights Victor manages to weasel into the same bed as Vincent the cat is the one squeezing between them. Cockblocker to most of his work, really, but he loves her nonetheless.

Despite that, he takes his sweet time in shoving off the winter apparel—melted snow trailing behind him as he groggily makes his way around the apartment for a change of clothes. Vincent isn’t in his room, he notices, the door abnormally ajar to an empty bed. He’s about to yell for him to get out of his own room, till he’s greeted with emptiness as well—and the cat is at his legs again, and he has to shove her away in distress just to change his pants.

He comes out, maybe ten minutes till seven, in christmas pajamas and a sweater to some movie he can’t bother himself to recall—with the strong urge to bust open the candy-cane hot chocolate and pour two or three shots of vodka in. Maybe even get a taller glass, actually.

Victor’s stumbling in the kitchen for approximately a _minute_ before something light smacks his shoulder, and when he turns, a thick wad of blankets curled on the couch shuffles to reveal a slim arm—and Vincent’s giving him the middle finger.

“Merry Christmas to you too, Vincey! Want a cocktail for that fine rotisserie _fuck you_ you’re serving?” Victor dryly snorts, leaning down to throw the empty box of tissues back at the other man before the cat can get the chance to chew at it. He watches in mild amusement, as the layers of sheets are eventually pulled so Vincent is glaring over, expression akin to a kid who found his mother’s murderer. He always looked like that. “What’s your deal today? It’s festive tonight, dear!”

“Did you get the tylenol?” Vincent mutters meekly at him, and Victor stops, because he absolutely forgot the tylenol in his own fit of self pity. _“...Victor.”_

“...I got you your favorite gin?” Victor eventually offers, voice high as he conveniently positions himself too far for Vincent’s projectile to reach—running the coffee machine instantly as the contents of the bag are slowly spread about the counter. “Vincent?”

The silence is absolutely unnerving, and before he even realizes that the mountain of blankets is suddenly missing from the couch—arms are wrapping around him, and he’s being shoved to the floor rapidly. Victor yells, thrashing in protest and Vincent’s atop of him, now—hips stradling over his own. Vincent’s dark, weak eyes are glaring down in a predatory manner—and Victor’s worried something has _actually_ gone wrong before a thud resounds against his head, and no, nothing’s wrong, actually.

He just lays on the floor miserably for a few minutes, letting the dark haired man smack him repeatedly with the tissue box before he offers a pleading look. Vincent wacks it over his face one more time for good measure before rolling off.

“I’m taking half the vodka, too,” Vincent proclaims, voice rasping uncomfortably before he sniffs up again—whining pitifully as soon as he was done. “How’d you even forget? I looked you dead in the goddamn eye this morning.”

“I’m sorry, okay! Day’s been rough,” Victor raises his arms in surrender, eyes narrowed in regret as he watches Vincent’s hand circle around the vodka handle. “Look, I won’t even sing in the shower till your cold is over! That good enough, Edgeworth?”

“It’s never enough till I say it is, Vicbag.”

 _“Vincent,”_ Victor whines, forcibly wrapping his arms around the taller man’s shoulders for an embrace—continuing to beg quietly. “You’re so _mean!_ God, maybe you are fit to be a lawyer, at this rate.”

“I’ve always been fit for it,” Vincent states as a matter-of-fact, raising an eyebrow at Victor before pushing him off and making his way back to the couch—with Victor’s own drink. Did he even _like_ hot chocolate? “Commit a crime after graduation so I can arrest your ass, and maybe I’ll forgive you.”

“One cold and suddenly, he has free reign to insult me. The _nerve,”_ Victor whispers, grabbing another mug from the cabinets to get his well-deserved cocoa, already flicking the vodka open long before it's ready. “Not risking an entire Myers employment deal just for that, kitten. Going to have to deal with me till I die.”

“Death seems like the sweeter option, at this rate,” Vincent calls from the couch, groaning at the nickname and presumably shoving another middle finger in the redhead’s direction. “At least in death I won’t have to hear _your_ incessant whining.”

Victor’s pout is all the more necessary when he finally has a hot cup in hand—wandering over to shove a little room for himself on the couch, with a large lack of carefulness given. Vincent doesn’t verbally protest, only offering a glare and a kick to the head before curling up, and it’s silent for another minute as the cat circles around the coffee table.

“...If you die, you don’t get to beat Albert,” Victor eventually whispers, words so low that he didn’t even think Vincent would be able to _hear—_ yet the next minute, the aforementioned man lets out a groan akin to a sob. His eyelids lower in victory, and first sip has never felt so rewarding in his life. “That’s what I thought, Edgeworth.”

Then, suddenly—the kick is back, and Victor nearly drops the mug to the floor as hot liquid sputters in his throat and the wrong pipe opens. He coughs sporadically, holding the ceramic high in the air as he doubles over. Vincent’s leg retreats, thankfully, and the second Victor isn’t thinking he’s going to _die_ he turns with a simmering frown.

 _“Dude—!”_ He wheezes, slapping a hand to his lungs after a second to cough a little more before continuing. “I get it—you feel euphoric joy seeing me in pain! Lay off a little on Christmas, at _least!”_

“Any joy I had the chance of regaining died off the second I made the poor choice of moving in with you,” Vincent muttered cooly, a smug glint behind his eyes before he turned to the television. “Can you get the remote?”

“Have you been on this couch all day?” Victor interrogates, and when Mittens meows again he goes on before an answer could slither its way in. “Did you even _feed_ her?”

Vincent physically pauses, eyes narrowing to connect any thoughts together in his sluggish state before he frowns. He’s instantly beckoning the cat over, making kissy noises that Victor swears is his own hallucination, and then rubbing his clammy hands over the soft pelt along her neck.

 _“Oh—angel, look at you! Daddy’s sorry, c’mere—”_ Vincent coos, and past the purrs and affectionate chirps coming from the cat’s throat Victor can _hear_ the favoritism of this apartment taunting him. _“Who’s the prettiest kitty? You are, that’s right! Oh, Daddy loves you so, so much! Who’s my little Mitty Witty?”_

Victor wants to gag.

Not really, actually, but sometimes he wishes he could do it on command.

“Jesus, fine, your royal highness! I’ll take care of your sick ass for a day,” He proclaims, putting the mug down and standing with an aching stretch before flicking the television on with a huff. He’s half tempted to chuck the remote, really, but he sighs and simply hands it down to the other man before making his way off. Vincent only tilts his chin challengingly at him.

The cat comes bolting the second he rattles the food in hand, and with a gentle laugh he guides her to the bowl—pouring it in for her before stepping back. Vincent doesn’t seem to have any remarks left to give when Victor turns his attention back, and in the moment, the red-headed boy just stands there to watch him.

It’s calming, when he allows the blissful silence to set in—to just gaze gently at messy black locks, normally slick and precise in appearance. The cold was unappreciated by the both of them when it first hit, most of their holiday plans cancelled for Vincent to wallow in self misery—but Victor couldn’t say he hated having to serve him for a bit. If anything, his affections were given more proper responses now—even if it was all rejection. During the mornings, Vincent would normally just slam the door on him in a less-than-but-still-kinda-caring manner.

Victor dazes out in that state momentarily, leaning against the counter with crossed arms. He doesn’t even notice Vincent shifting, before another yell causes him to flinch out of the train of thought.

“Why do you always do that?” Vincent demanded, eyebrow cocked up expectantly as he took a swig directly from the gin’s opening.

Victor blinks. “Do what, dear?”

“You always stare at me when you think I’m not looking,” Vincent asserted, raising the glass to shift himself up—back pressed against the sofa’s sides to stare back at the red-head. “I do notice, actually, but I don’t think you’ve ever been perceptive enough to pick up on it.

Victor feels the back of his neck heat up steadily, and he glances away without uttering a cohesive answer. He nearly blurted out the truth—he gets lost in Vincent’s appearance, and that’s usually all there is to it. But when another minute passes and words are unable to flow from his mouth, he cracks a grin and rubs the back of his head.

“I’m gonna take a smoke,” Victor hums, and Vincent nearly flashes concern at him before he’s off—shuffling through his bag to pull out a pack or so. It’s nearly used up, lid worn—and thumbs slip one of the cigarettes out with ease. “Seeya in a bit, kitten.”

He hears Vincent grumble from around the corner as he’s retrieving the lighter, and his smile tugs a bit more genuinely before he’s in the bathroom—nudging the window ajar to the freezing air outside. A light flashes between his hands, and soon a familiar sting is resting in his lungs and he exhales slowly, teeth gnawing gently on the material. Resting his arms against the window sill, he sits on the edge of the bath, and stays.

He’s not sure how long.

When he blinks again the stick is snuffed out in the sink and he’s rubbing at his eyes—a tired daze settling over his form with ease. He doesn’t remember moving from the spot, but he must’ve much earlier—as the room is nearly too dark to see in, now.

The television is still running, from what he can hear, and as he stumbles out of the bathroom with ashes crushed between his palms, he finds Vincent’s isn’t asleep, to his surprise.

He nods as a greeting, discarding the contents into a nearby ashtray before returning expectantly. Mittens is sound asleep in her own bed in the corner, shifting occasionally in her sleep with quiet, murmuring sighs. More glasses are on the coffee table than earlier, and Victor can immediately tell the man in front of him is more than well on his way to tipsy.

“Did you even leave any alcohol left for me?” Victor mutters sarcastically.

“Left the Brandy and Sherry alone, I think,” Vincent hums, leaning back with lidded eyes as he glances over Victor warily. “Did you pass out?”

“What time is it?”

“Nine or so.”

Victor doesn’t dignify the earlier question with a response, immediately making way for the bottles left—to which Vincent snickers in a patronizing sense of amusement.

Vincent actually moves over, this time—leaving more than enough room for Victor to sit comfortably. He doesn’t comment on it, better not to look a gift horse in the mouth. When he finally sinks in with a sigh, suddenly a weight knocks into him and he’s warmer than before, and he looks down tiredly to Vincent laying in his lap.

“You reek of cigarettes and depression,” Vincent mutters after a moment, and Victor laughs more than he normally would. “I don’t understand how you like the stuff.”

“I don’t know either, Vincey,” Victor hums, and then he takes a swig of the Brandy and the rest of the evening is left to history all in a moment. “At least I don’t smell like second place to Albert fucking Krueger.”

“You have a goddamn death wish, Blake.”

...

Hours pass, of bickering and sit-coms, and howling laughter and emotional highs, and when Victor lolls his head back with a hazy mind and giggles slowly, he knows the night is far too gone to stop now. Alcohol rests deep in their blood, drinking away whatever emotions they would’ve gained from remembering they’re all alone for Christmas, this year—and it’s all the more exhilarating when words are thrown about like a pair of dice.

“You fucking _love_ Rosé, holy shit,” The red-head mumbles, as if the fact wasn’t already known between the two of them commonly. “How many fucking bottles did we _have?”_

“Shut the fuck up, Vic,” Vincent grunts, tipping the wine glass back again before offering a meaningless glare. “Brandy tastes like shit, ‘least I have taste.”

Victor’s grin is unfaltering, and his arms feel weak as he leans against the couch arms. “Is that just the rich boy genetics talking there, or can you actually say you’ve ever even tried it?”

“Die in a hole already,” Vincent spits, and Victor’s howling laughter is enough to cause the neighbors to file another complaint, if he had to guess. “Just shut up, even Albert’s sick of you..”

“Albert _loves_ me, Edgeworth!” Victor slurs, pointing an accusatory finger in his direction as he attempts to gather his own words. “You’re just mad he likes me and likes getting off to you being worse than him.”

“What the _fuck,_ Victor!” Vincent barks, and suddenly the man is on top of him again and Victor doesn’t find breathing any easier. “God—shut _up,_ how does anyone even _tolerate_ you? Your lips never stop moving. It’s _irritating.”_

Victor hiccups, and his tone is all the more flirtatious with the intoxins in his system. He’s unable to discern if the sentences spilling from his own mouth are genuine or not, but he can’t find himself to dwell on it. “You can just _kiss me_ if you hate it so much, then, y’know.”

He closes his eyes, expecting another smack to the head or more angered grumbling from the man, as it always was. Yet, silence greets him, and eyelids heavy as leather are pried open to peer up at Vincent carefully. The expression the black-haired man carries is unreadable, eyes narrowed before _something_ in the back of his irises glints. It’s dangerous, Victor is able to figure out, before hands are suddenly on the couch’s arm, resting by the sides of his head.

Legs are shifting up his torso soon enough, and as his mouth opens to speak again Vincent _pounces_ on the opportunity. Hands are seizing at Victor’s shirt all in a moment, and he’s being forced to sit up and Vincent’s breath is _hot_ against his face _and—_

—Vincent Edgeworth is kissing him.

Victor Blake, for _once,_ in his casino of a life, finds himself speechless. He can taste the Rosé against his tongue, liquid dripping down the side of his cheek as air is lost from his chest—his head is spinning more than it ever had before, and he doesn’t even realize Vincent pulls away before a hand is on his chest again.

“...Brandy tastes like _shit,”_ Vincent hisses, wiping his mouth with a free sleeve before he sits back in his previous position. He only eyes Victor again once a lack of response is apparent, and soon a sadistic smile is curling up and Victor feels his mouth go dry. _“Cat got your tongue, Blake?”_

Victor inhales, sitting up slowly, before offering a defiant glare.

“If my taste in alcohol is so bad, _Vincent—”_ He begins, a gentle venom lacing the name so tenderly as he leans forward. Vincent does the same. _“Why not give me a taste test?”_

Vincent’s own annoyance comes to the center, nose scrunching at the fact that Victor would dare even challenge the control he held mere moments ago. _“Very well, Victor.”_

...

Victor wakes up the next day on the floor, a blanket tossed over him as an unbearable headache pounds down on him. He can barely recall a _thing,_ and when Vincent’s knowing gaze rests on him from the kitchen table, Victor frowns.

_“...Thanks for the cold, dickhead.”_

“You did this to yourself, Victor.”

Victor can’t find himself to deny that, exactly.

...

* * *

_You’ll never see me  
Behind this killer’s face  
These aren’t my hands  
These needles take their place  
Was this all part of the plan?_

_Would you believe this isn’t me?  
That what you get isn’t what you see?_

* * *

July 17th, 2078. 1:04 PM.

G4 District, City Center.

...

Victor Blake was not the type to cry.

If you had come up to him and asked, in the middle of his shift, the last time he had cried—he would have laughed and explained he couldn’t even remember. He didn’t find a use in it, had found other ways of dealing with his emotions and took pride in it. He didn’t find crying to be weak, necessarily—just couldn’t find himself releasing his frustrations through it as others could.

Yet, that all changed, three weeks ago.

It was the early hours of the day when he was with a few of the other department inspectors—explaining the investment plans heartily with the suave charm always carried, naturally learned through years of experience. He was well respected with Vincent around the corporation; they had been the first employees to have been promoted to such high positions in their first year, and Victor was well on his way to finally reaching the position of Chief Investment Officer in due time.

There had been a request to see the inner workings of the factory lineup, and while he was technically not qualified for such a permission—he opened the door anyway, knowing from the few interactions he _had_ with Myers, that it would be the best choice.

Victor instructed well enough to stay behind the tape marked on the floor, and then continued onwards—detailing the stock prices and functionality of their tactics. Imports were highlighted along with the demand of exports, and how even G1 had valued the innovative technology Myers had to offer. He already had most of the inspectors around his finger, an eased smile and joking tone tore multiple laughs—all with such little effort, he knew at the least, a raise was to come in two weeks or so.

It’s only when one inspector lowers their glasses, questioning the proximity in which employees are allowed near the machines, that Victor faltered. He turned his gaze to a similar direction, frowning at the sight, before he waved a small hand to the group. Telling them to wait just a moment, he turned on his heel to approach another member of the staff.

The employee simply had not noticed how close they were to the running gears, if he had to guess. Victor did not recognize him, had only been drawn to the dark glasses covering his eyes and the hunched posture. One end of the lab coat was dangerously close to getting caught, and in the moment—Victor reached out.

 _“Kid, I’m gonna have to ask you to step back a bit—”_ Victor began, pressing a gentle hand to the back of the staff’s shoulder, ready to guide him away from the factory line and continue on with the presentation. He hadn’t accounted for the other factors, however—as the kid flinches _hard_ and pushes back, panicked eyes glinting through dim frames. Victor’s about to tell the kid to calm down as he steadies himself, yet a terrified gaze meets his, and suddenly he feels a pressure on the end of his elbow. _“Ah—?”_

Then the pain registers, and suddenly everything is lost to his control.

He doubted such a pain could ever be recreated, as the sensation of tendons snapping against bone and skin, grinded and mangled cruelly in the maw of a metal monster—it was indescribable, really. He felt hands pulling at him from the back of his shirt, and the instinct to finally get _out_ kicks in—he feels his left hand grip tightly at the upper arm, attempting to create enough force to stumble back, but then suddenly the machine _lurches_ and he feels his fingers slide underneath.

The shouts and screams around him were muffled, as deep red coated everywhere he looked and black spots corner in on the edge of his eyes. He falters, fatally, for another moment and is pulled in more—and when his face meets a cold surface, red is then all he _can_ see.

_It’s agony. It’s torture, he’s sure he’s screaming but the sound is lost to time—and when he blinks through tears again he’s on the floor, staring at the ceiling, and people are surrounding him in muffled shadows. All he can do is breathe, barely, and he wonders in the moment if Vincent got his coffee that morning. Then, he closes his eyes, and doesn’t wake up again._

Victor only woke up again a week later, stacked up on so many painkillers that his brain is unable to tell who’s speaking—and for the next few days, he’s running in and out of consciousness. The first person he can coherently understand is a doctor, and with each question perceived he only mumbles that he wants Vincent.

Once they finally appeared to be fed up, Vincent arrives—and Victor realizes he can’t see the man, everything is still dark and empty, and he _cries—_ because he’ll never get to see Vincent’s face again. 

Gaining the mechanical prosthetics was difficult, despite having worked at the same company who supplied them. Metal had met with skin and it was _uncomfortable—_ each movement sent another jolt of pain down circuitry nerves, and the amount of physical therapy he was explained to undergo in the near future made his head swim with nausea and exhaustion.

Now, sitting in the medical ward once more—the nurse gently explained she’d be removing the bandages, and if Myers did their job, his vision would return to him again. He didn’t have his hopes up, truthfully—neither did the nurse, from what he could gather in her voice. His eyelids are heavy, and the material scratches against skin as the bandages are lifted away.

He opens his eyes. And he sees the world.

It’s a medical breakthrough, really—doctors are swarming him again, but he doesn’t find himself able to care much for their questions. Victor only has one thing he wants to see again, as his brain adjusts to the influx of light again and winces with every new blur of motion.

1:04 PM, in a private room, Victor Blake’s eyes land on Vincent Edgeworth. He cries, for the second time, in years. It's more beautiful than he remembered.

...

* * *

_I’m not the bad guy  
I’m just designed that way  
No matter what I try  
I can’t help but hurt those close to me  
And I can’t see a way out this time_

_Wait, get to the point_

* * *

April 20th, 2081. 11:21 PM.

G4 District, City Center.

...

Victor Blake wasn’t the most composed of men.

He’s known such a fact his entire life—he’s always had a quick temper, under the right conditions. He was prone to show physical aggression, and often had to remove himself from an area to avoid any further incident. On the worse occasions, he had caused physical damage to property—punching out an entire mirror in college after a professor screwed his resume over, much to the dismay of his hand and paycheck, at the time.

It got worse, once the prosthetics came into play. He had more physical strength than he was used to, and the emotional distress of it all had him with multiple property damage bills once he finally left the hospital.

_Myers paid for it all, ironically._

It took months for him to finally regulate the joints and circuitry in new limbs, and once he did, the breaking of plates and other furniture at his own home lessened. Anger did not, however.

With age, came knowledge, and now resting at the Chief Investment Officer position—Victor knew the corporation he worked for inside and out. Safe to say, he was disgusted beyond all comprehension—had done nothing but sit by, idly, as Winston Loomis was condemned for a crime both he and Vincent knew that he was not guilty of. He hadn’t cared for the man, exactly—not since he had pushed Victor’s arms into the factory. He avoided any sign of him entirely, even if he knew it was not a fault the boy could control.

When he reflects, he briefly wonders—had he not avoided Winston, would that boy still be the choice to pin for the crimes?

Victor didn’t know. Didn’t _want_ to know, at this rate.

Not when he stood, listening to Myers from the top of the grandiose staircase, raising a champagne glass high and making a toast—a toast to Vincent’s recovery, to his survival. Employees and staff members alike rose their glasses in a similar manner, for they had all been shocked by the sudden accident which struck that night.

An _accident._

If Victor hadn’t been _screaming_ at paramedics to let him in, at the time, he would’ve laughed at it all. Anyone with a smidge of intelligence would’ve known it was anything but an accident—the road was empty, that time of night, and the car was in such a good shape that any inner malfunction was next to _impossible._

Which is why, as joyous cries ring out around him—Victor’s glass shatters, and he leaves, uncaring of the stares he receives.

He looks back, only once, to glare at Myers.

_Myers smiles fondly, and Victor Blake had never felt so sick._

...

* * *

_It’s hard to blame them  
I even scare myself  
Built to kill, seems to  
Be detrimental to my health  
I guess I should’ve known_

* * *

January 20th, 12:31 AM.

G4 District, Suburban.

...

Victor Blake, most of all, had his regrets.

Memories and choices haunted him as if they were nothing more than an old melody, a song that would blare through the television stereos every Christmas with Vincent in college—nostalgic, a sign of life long lost, where drunken laughter was now filled with sorrow.

Vincent hadn’t survived the crash. Even as the man walked and breathed among him, his heartbeat was no longer present—instead replaced with the hum of gears and wires, nothing but artificial blood and artificial skin. Victor would lie awake, deep at night, thinking of the lack of warmth present in the man’s embraces after the incidents. How his biggest fears, most of all, was that Vincent’s love could be a replica of what was lost.

A replica. False, nothing more than built in.

The real Vincent Edgeworth was dead, a still-beating heart and a brain long lost to the hands of a higher man, and Victor Blake knows—that when he dies, he will not be joining the side with Vincent waiting.

He will go elsewhere, in his purgatory of shame and drunken sorrows, and he will wallow there for all eternity.

Vincent, despite everything, was _free._ Victor Blake was trapped, with memories and blood and a human body—a human body that will age, when the cyborgs walking amongst him are paused in a sliver in their perception of life.

It's these regrets that he often reflects on, when he’s alone. When he’s watching the smoke rise gently from his pipe, lungs decaying in a perpetual state of bodily harm he cannot care to stop anymore, in the midst of night.

He’s leaning on the hood of his car—it’s a vintage replica, a Carroll Shelby Mustang, that he was gifted on his first year of employment at Myers. Albert Krueger had sent it all the way from G2, as a congratulations of sorts—the man was already beginning to run as CEO of Krueger Corporations, from what he knew, so it was a pleasant surprise. Vincent had gotten a car, as well, but he took one look at the beauty and was dialing to get it scrapped. It took Victor hours of begging, before they both settled on selling it off to a vintage collector.

It’s the only car he’s used, frankly. Even if it gradually began to lose value with the extensive use, he cannot even bear to think of getting rid of it.

Perhaps he’s being sentimental, at this rate. But when he takes a quick look back to the pair of dice hanging from the mirror, he can’t find himself to care. He had spent his young, stupid days in that car—with Vincent yelling at him as they sped down highways, alone, without a care in the world to slow them down. Vincent would crack, eventually, and stick his head out the window and let the hair blow through his hair.

That doesn’t happen anymore. Vincent avoids cars, as much as he can. Victor doesn’t blame him.

When another ten minutes pass, and the sharp tug of his chest grows numb and smoke loses it’s value—he snuffs the cigarette out, and the pipe is placed gently in the front pocket of his vest. He doesn’t budge from the spot, however, and finds himself glancing at the stars instead.

When Victor barely even knew Krueger, and the two happened to sit next to each other in a lecture hall—Albert found it in himself to ask the strangest of questions. It would start out small, then gradually change. In just two weeks Victor had answered his favorite animal, and then, his opinion on the worst torture method—and despite it all, he was none the disturbed. One of the earlier inquiries was on the constellations. Victor had no strong opinion on any, so when the day passed and the next came, he had spent only one minute thinking it over. Virgo—he stated. When Albert asked him why, he said it was because that’s what Vincent answered when he asked—and Albert scoffed so loudly others around them passed a glance.

Virgo was Victor’s zodiac sign, he soon learned. Topics like that were barely learnt about anymore, but when Albert looked him in the eye and told him so, he was struck with a warm tug at his chest for the entire day. If Albert Krueger were here, now, and asked again—Victor would change his answer.

_Pisces. February 20th._

Victor let out a heavy sigh, shaking his head for a moment before finally pushing himself away from the vehicle—the laptop and bottle of wine resting untouched inside, without a lock to the doors to secure. He didn’t need to, all the way out here.

Ambling slowly towards the Edgeworth mansion, his own legs felt weighted. It was as if he had lost his legs in the accident, instead—sluggish muscles akin to metal against the ground, all with the burden he carried on his shoulders. The burden of what he was about to do.

When he’s atop the last step, and the security system lies in wait—he doesn’t approach, even though the system has learned to accept him inside, learning he was not a trespasser. Instead, he knocks gently on the door, and steps back.

Time is short, before the handle is soon turning on its side and a shorter frame rests behind the door—the younger, wide eyes of Draco Edgeworth landing up on him. The resemblance to Vincent is uncanny, and he wishes it were anything but—as it’s been the one thing he’s kept his distance on.

Vincent treated Draco as a son, occasionally. Victor could not do the same.

“Mr. Blake? It’s a bit of a surprise, to have you visit at such an hour,” Draco muttered, opening the door wide in a moment's notice to allow the man in—bowing with the same smile, the one he always adorned with the duties of a butler. “I apologize to inform you, but Master Vincent has already turned in for the night. Though, I would be more than willing to set you up in the guest room, if needed.”

“Ah—that’s not necessary, dear! I just needed to be here a bit, I suppose,” Victor explained, walking in after a moment with a low chuckle, shaking his head at the formality. It was not fitting, with such a submissive role on an Edgeworth. “If that wouldn’t be trouble.”

“Not at all,” Draco assures, and his own smile is intelligent in nature as he shuts the door behind them, before wandering off to signal the bar’s dim lighting to activate. It’s low, red in color—and Victor wishes he could say that he’s the reason why. “Whatever do you need, sir? Has anything happened?”

Victor pauses, an exhausted exhale leveling out as he rubbed the back of his neck. “...Yes, actually. Just... needed this place, to get it off my mind.”

Draco’s eyebrows are creased in concern at the answer, and he pulls out one of the bar stools after a moment—which Victor takes, gratefully. He keeps his gaze away from the shorter man, however, finding the facial expressions unpleasant to gaze into for long.

“Do you wish to talk about it?”

“...If I may,” Victor begins, and raw guilt is already gnawing away at his organs—because, Draco, in all his youth—is eager to please. All too easy to use, because for all he has in knowledge he lacks in experience—and to insert the memories of Myers would be to grant a death wish. “I was going to speak of the topic with Vincent, tomorrow, but it’s—a bit concerning, is all. I doubt he’d enjoy hearing it, anyways.”

“I’m all ears, Mr. Blake,” Draco mutters, and he’s pouring a glass of Brandy out into a glass for Victor already. “I can also relay the information to Master Vincent once he awakes.”

Victor shakes his head, leaning forward. “That’s not necessary, dear. I’d actually rather you keep this from him, at least for a while.”

Draco seems visually perplexed—a small frown hidden by practice, yet all the easy to notice to Victor’s eyes. The boy doesn’t seem as willing, now, in knowing he’d have to retract information from Vincent—but as the boy passes the glass, Victor offers him a gentle smile, and that worry fades away in the approval of affection.

“Very well, sir. What brought you all the way here, then?” Draco nods, smiling in return as he takes a seat across from Victor’s person.

Victor takes a moment to sip from the glass, Brandy all too nostalgic for Draco to have chosen blindly—Vincent must have mentioned his taste, by now. After rubbing his chin gently and turning his gaze away, he begins to explain.

“...I’ve been keeping myself on top of the Myers investigation, all these years,” Victor starts, and it’s not even a lie—he had kept so much from Vincent, now, just in hopes he’d never have to see the dead look in those eyes again. “Obviously, it’s not much of a surprise. I _despise_ Myers for all it is, yet I’m not exactly content with letting this—continue, for an indefinite amount of time. The amount of missing persons cases only increases each year I sit around. You and me both know it’s connected to Myers—there’s no doubt about it, at this rate. Several people have reported new debris in the area on a constant basis.”

Draco nods, understanding, his attention kept steady.

Victor takes another sip, longer, this time. Discomfort soon becomes evident on his face, and Draco frowns at the expression.

“...We recently found evidence that certain missing persons are alive,” Victor eventually offers, swirling the Brandy slowly at the turn of metal wrists. His own leg is bouncing underneath the bar, from where Draco cannot see. “Heat signatures and other such physical evidence suggests that, at the least, three to ten people are active in the labyrinths of Myers Corporation’s basement at once for months, or even years.”

“That’s quite concerning,” Draco comments, cupping his own chin in thought at the influx of new evidence. Victor glances, only once, and the mannerisms are different _enough_ from Vincent’s that he can turn his eyes directly for a few minutes. “That suggests the work of more than just Myers himself, yes? Not—promising, after everything. It would explain the disappearances easier, however. Not even Myers can continue such work on his own.”

Victor wanted to laugh. Draco was right, technically. He was staring at the proof of it.

“That was my initial thought process, as well—you’re just as smart as Vincey, sometimes, dear,” Victor adds, and Draco’s already reacting positively to the ques. The amount of ease this task has shown to be leaves Victor more nervous, and for _once,_ maybe he wishes Draco had more sense to him past his service to others. “But the heat signatures have been translated to general body shape, and we have identified at least three possible female profiles down there.”

Draco tilts his head curiously. “Is that so? Have they been attached to the missing files, yet?”

“Yes, actually—one of them isn’t actually missing, per say,” Victor confirms, and he takes his time in retrieving the small slip of folded paper from his pocket—handing it to the shorter boy before explaining onwards. “One of them is suspected to be Zalmona Aurand, the most—”

“The most wanted criminal in G4,” Draco finishes, and the red-headed man pauses before snickering gently, careful not to disturb the mansion’s peace and quiet past any lingering hallways.

“That would be it, yes, dear. We suspect she’s down there to avoid law enforcement, which would fit into her crime history well,” Victor hummed, vision locking onto the Brandy's labeling in order to gather the information well enough in his mind. “She’s known as a notorious thief, has several physical assaults on her record with a history of violence—has illegal possession of firearms, and is generally found disappearing without a trace between each crime. Her escaping to Myers would explain, specifically, why she hasn’t been as noticed as of late—with the... _active_ threats, down there.”

“What of the other two, then? You stated they are attached to missing persons cases,” Draco pushes, and even though it’s hidden well—a glint of distant, unfulfilled hope flashes in the layers of blue muddling his iris. Victor ignores how sour the cognac promptly turns.

“Well—the first, has a more generalized connection to Myers. Vivian Bailey, apparently only around seven or so at the time of her disappearance. Both of her parents were former Myers employees,” Victor mutters, tone much more careful as the description leads on—not even wishing to understand why a girl would remain there, for so _long,_ when her parents were long dead. “We suspect that is why she is there, at the least.”

Draco is silent, eyes lowered slightly. Victor doesn’t condemn him for that.

“Then—the third person, possibly identified. No current connection to Myers that we know of,” Victor starts, and before he can even _try_ to continue, he’s downing the rest of the glass in one go. Nothing tames the dread in his gut, and as he looks back to Draco—he _knows_ he’s sealing the boy’s fate, here. “Vanora Ellis, aged twenty three at the time of her disappearance.”

Silence covers the bar. Moments pass, and the calming atmosphere which always accompanied the setting suddenly turned to an unbearable tension—air so thick, that Victor could slice down with a knife, if he desired to.

He takes the moment to seize over Draco’s reaction—vision accelerated beyond most comprehension, due to the mechanics loaded to his psyche. He can see the pale skin rise with bumps, ever so slightly, as shoulders tense upwards by mere inches. Draco is attempting to stay composed, and normally, Victor would state that he’d gotten the job well done.

But he cannot, this time. Not while Draco’s folded hands are digging nails into flesh, and eyes flash something _fierce,_ and suddenly Draco’s thoughts are a thousand miles away from the name alone.

Not when Victor has seen it all before, in his own mirror—reflection of a lovestruck fool, glaring daggers back.

_The capacity to love was—and always will be—the most inane concept humans ever devised._

“...I—see,” Draco begins, and his voice is all the higher and sharper, strained beyond comprehension. “That’s certainly troubling, if such is the case. We assume most missing cases of Myers end up dead in mere days, but if they are keeping some alive, then..."

“I don’t think either of us want to exactly imagine the possibilities,” Victor finishes, and Draco’s nod is expected. “It’s... getting late, isn’t it? I’ve kept you up for such a while.”

“Worry not of it, Mr. Blake,” Draco mutters, and soon his smooth and undisturbed mannerisms are back in action. Victor knows it's all forced, and that the boy’s thoughts are racing for thousands of miles an hour. Draco takes the empty glass, as well as the Brandy—and places them away, as if they had never been used. “I often stay up later to ensure the mansion is kept to standards. Your own emotions are but another task I’d pride myself on in assisting.”

Victor chuckles, and in another life, he’d have broken down to sobs all in a moment.

“You’re so uptight, you know that?” Victor comments, and Draco blinks at the sudden familiarity between the conversation—still not even paying full attention, as eyes occasionally drift to glass and labels of a bright blue. “Live your life while you can, dear. Even Vincent wasn’t as formal, your age. At least, not alone.”

“I’m sure he wasn’t,” Draco hums, his own meaningless chuckle rising out from dry vocal cords. “But you and him—well..."

Victor stands from the seat, winking down at the butler as he rolls down his own sleeves. “I loved him, yes. Love’s what brightens a world, sometimes, y’know?”

Draco would have reacted to the bluntness of the statement, in any other moment. But there’s just silence, and then a whisper. “...I’m sure it does.”

Victor wants to break the nearest window, and by all accounts, the closest is the one above Draco’s head—and maybe, if he had the heart, he’d end it now and make it easier on everyone. But he’s not the plan maker, here.

“...Ah—hey, one last thing before I head off,” Victor chimes, and he leans down a little to offer a quiet tone, eyebrows furrowed. “Don’t go off and do anything, alright, dear? I’ll be discussing this with Vincent tomorrow for dinner. I doubt you’d go off on your own, anyways, but it’s better safe than sorry.”

Draco laughs, charming in its own devoted way. The tactic, they both used, to raise a faux mask and slip through their lies. “Concern yourself none for me, Mr. Blake. I’d never do such a thing unless ordered to directly.”

Victor shakes his head for a moment, before suddenly rubbing the head of hair in front of him—and Draco yelps lowly, creased eyebrows paired with an unfamiliar embarrassment to the Edgeworth’s faces. The signs of something more than just a butler.

Victor pulls back, soon enough, and the night is far from over as the front entrance shuts behind him.

Cold air is ripping into his skin, and it nips and burns and he embraces it—allows the discomfort to pile on, in layers and layers, as he makes way to the car. He’s already relit the pipe by then, and smoke is rising in the air with a broken promise lingering in its wake.

 _“...Sorry about this, kid.”_ Victor whispers, and though apologies have never been so genuine—it’s all done, now. Draco Edgeworth was as good as dead in the next day or two, and it’ll be the second time, now.

The second time that Victor Blake, a man of many regrets, stands in the world where an Edgeworth dies.

...

Hours later, when he’s still lying in the car—the bottle of Rosé drained of all contents, he faintly recalls the sensation of Vincent’s lips. Eyes are burning, as his trembling fingers address a message on the laptop atop the dashboard.

_[Objective complete, Monsieur M. Target will arrive in Myers Corporation tonight.]_

...

* * *

_He’s on his way down  
I hear him just above  
I guess it’s his job  
When pushing comes to shove  
At least I won’t be alone_

_Would you believe this isn’t me?  
That what you get isn’t what you see?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song referenced here (and the next chapter) is "The Haystack Principle - The Megas" !!
> 
> blakeworth nation thriving today , actually. im sobbing but im thriving and i think thats what matters most here
> 
> talk to me on twitter (@cinemarss) if u wanna !! <33


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